


Hunters Seeking Solid Ground

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Romance, Self-Hatred, Some Humor, Torture, Werefox Gawain, lancelot is illiterate (but not for long), lighter than looks from the tags..., some arthuriana characters are mentioned (lionel & ector)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 17:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: “Are you just being dramatic?” he inquired tersely when the fox kept turning counter-clockwise.“A bit,” Gawain admitted in a calm voice, a sombre tone that made Lancelot look up. “Though you don’t have a leg to stand on in that regard. Anyway, it helps to have some sun.”“Helps with what?”“Magic, of course. What, didn’t you believe me?”
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	1. my robes are as black as coal, yours are as white as snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work title from Sara Bareilles - Orpheus.  
> Inspired by Roman Van Walewein (hey, Roges) and these songs: Heather Dale - Black Fox, Melnitza - Kitsune, Charming Disaster - Little Black Bird. ^^  
> AU: Gawain (who is a werefox) was never caught, neither was Squirrel. Fey were smart and managed to hide and run for longer. Paladins lost their trail and are currently searching for them.   
> \+ slight AU age-wise: Lancelot is 19, Gawain is 20.

Lancelot woke up.

For once, he did not do so with a start, tearing his way out of the tormenting spider web of nightmares, fire and smoke mingling together until they were all he could see. 

No, this time the awakening was as calm as the winter night around him. He simply opened his eyes and sighed deeply, tilting his head to the side as he tried to understand what had awoken him.

Then the sound repeated, piercing the still winter air, and he hummed, letting his shoulders sag into the bunk he was laying on. Foxes.

He listened to them for a moment longer, their carefree yapping, trilling barks and harrowing cries, voices rising and falling as they must have been chasing each other just outside the camp border. Perhaps they were attracted by the scent of slowly cooling charred meat in the embers of paladin’s campfires.

Trying not to allow his mind to latch onto the memory of that smell, Lancelot closed his eyes again and willed himself to fall asleep. He only had a couple more hours before the dawn would come, bringing another day chock-full of chores and heavy, mind-numbing labour, wading through the thick snow in search of any trace of the Wolf-Blood Witch. 

So far, the search was fruitless. The woman had vanished, and so did the Sword. Father was, to put it mildly, enraged.

With every passing day that brought them no closer to winning the campaign against fey, the old man was growing angrier. The deep lines of his faces were now set into a permanent dark scowl that made Lancelot want to sink through the ground under his feet. Perhaps the fires of Hell could warm his frozen hands, at least, bring him some relief before they devoured him for his utter inability to serve as he was meant to.

He sighed again. As he tried to dislodge the feeling of wrongness in his ribs, which felt as if broken, piercing through his lungs at every inhale, he sucked the chill air in and caught something else on it but the usual scents of the camp. A teasing, spicy note, so out of place here but so undeniably alluring, calling out to him, a laughing, gentle voice... 

… fey.

Lancelot froze, then dragged another shallow, quick breath in. A long moment passed in silence before he swung his feet over to the ground, hoisting his swords up from where they lay next to his cot, and walked to throw the flap of his tent aside.

Frantically turning his head left and right, Lancelot tried to determine where the scent was coming from. It was as elusive as smoke at first, but then it grew stronger as if the fey was getting closer. At least it seemed to be a solitary one — a scout, maybe? No matter. He might still have use — lead him back to their hideout, which so far he had been unable to locate. Perhaps that would appease Father and stay his heavy hand.

Unsheathing his sword with only the quietest cling of metal, Lancelot squared his shoulders and followed the trail on silent feet.

When something rustled in the bushes, the scent grew stronger, curling in his nose like a maddening itch of pepper; but before he could lunge, a small dark shape dashed across the clearing, darting from under the cover of a cart to the bushes.

A fox.

Breathing out through his teeth, Lancelot scoffed. He stared at it for a moment, then ran a hand over his face, dropping his shoulders. Just a fox—unbelievable; he must have been going mad. 

However, when he inhaled again, the scent was still there, pungent and rich in the air. When he tried to take a step closer, the bushes rustled, and the fox appeared again, showing its nose out of branches. It tilted its head once, looking him dead in the eye. Then it jumped to its feet and danced a few steps back, rushing to move further away, but not escaping—as if it was teasing him.

Exhaling heavily through his teeth, breath clouding in the still night air, Lancelot gestured for one of the brothers who stood slightly to the side, warming their hands over the fire. 

They ran over, obedient as ever, the familiar wariness written clearly over their faces. His appearance was a sign of trouble for the paladins almost as often as it was for fey, seeing how he rarely emerged from his tent other than to participate in a fight.

“Bow,” he rasped out, stretching his hand out. Wrapping his fingers around the polished wood of the longbow, Lancelot ignored the way they exchanged confused glances as he notched the arrow, took a deep breath, and drew it back with another inhale.

Taking aim, Lancelot breathed in and loosed the arrow. The air warped, a shimmering twist that distorted the trajectory—but the pained yelp told him that it still found the target, even if it was not perfect. A scatter of red steaming droplets splashed over the pristine snow, burning through it. 

Twitching his mouth in irritation, he moved closer, intent on finishing the cocky animal off, but this time it ran in earnest, leaving behind a trail of dark droplets. 

Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at the campfires, Lancelot paused. Perhaps he ought to bring more forces with him, but with Father’s mood, if he ended up waking him only to follow an animal into the woods and have it turn out to be nothing, just a false lead… It was better to investigate alone. His brothers were of little help should it come to a fight, anyway; and the beast was already injured.

Turning his head back in the direction of where the fox disappeared, Lancelot hesitated for a moment longer, then set his jaw and strode after it, chasing the trail which led him toward the woods. Every cautionary tale began like this, yet he, himself, was one; he supposed it gave him some lenience of whether or not to heed the warnings, because he, better than anyone else, knew how much such tales omitted.

He saw the fox pop out from the inky darkness and then vanish into it again, a restless shadow among the still ones of the night. It darted through the underbrush on light feet, left and right, with only a soft rustle of bare branches and the warm, musky scent to alert him to its presence. It was almost as if the animal led him somewhere; most likely, it was indeed luring Lancelot into a trap.

But no matter how much he strained his senses, eyes darting around and ears perked up to catch the faintest rustle or a gust of wind, the forest stayed deadly still. The only sound to disturb its peaceful slumber was the crunch of snow under his feet. Between the tree trunks, the snow lay in high heaps that Lancelot would have drowned in up to his waist; but on the path, it was hardened into dirt-streaked stone. 

The trees parted, revealing a small clearing, a circle of undisturbed white glowing brightly in the moonlight. Lancelot slowed down, taking a cautious step to enter the clearing. In the middle of it, surrounded by all sides by the sparkling, pure white, lay a small figure. 

Ignoring the pull in his chest, he took another step, approaching it in a wary manner, eyes darting around. Any moment he expected fey archers to appear, as they were masters of hiding in the shadows instead of fighting in the open field. Father always said it was a sign of cowardice, but Lancelot could not help thinking that it was a smarter strategy than throwing unarmoured people under the arrows.

No matter.

When he reached the fox, towering above it, for a moment it almost looked as if the animal was dead. It was surely either fey or enchanted — he knew as much from the scent now, the foul sorcery clinging to its fur like dark oil. However, when he crouched next to it and reached out, enthralled by that scent that clung to the soft, streaming—almost as if it was brushed—fur, the fox’s eyes snapped open.

They were glowing bright, ethereal green, and Lancelot yanked his hand back at once, just in time to avoid the sharp teeth that snapped at the air an inch away from his hand. 

The defiant move seemed to have drained all of the fox’s strength, though, as it fell back with a pained whelp. Its sides were heaving for air, and its tail was twitching as it tried to get up again. The scent of blood was growing stronger as it struggled, red streaming from its hind leg—a graze, but a bad one, a hindrance to any hunting attempt and a sure way to starvation.

Setting his jaw, Lancelot unsheathed his dagger. Even if the animal was not fey, it was most likely doomed; it was better to end its suffering. 

That was what he told himself, and then again, but his hands still trembled slightly. It was one thing, fighting someone in the field, with a sword in hand, someone who would have killed him otherwise… but this, butchering an animal he was not even sure was not simply enchanted to spy, acting against its own nature, crawling in the very center of a paladin camp because it had no other choice…

He hesitated, the dagger clenched tight in his fist, and the fox ceased its struggle to turn its head, crossing their gazes. For a short, tense moment, Lancelot stared in its eyes which shone like two fiery emeralds. Finally, he tightened the grip on the hilt and jerked his chin up, a frown crossing his face.

_ I’ll kill you,  _ he thought.  _ Then you at least will be free. _

The fox was silent now, only a low rumble of a growl trapped in its throat as it bared its teeth at him. It was shaking now, its entire little frame wrecked by shivers, its hackles raised as the animal tried to appear bigger.

It was still so small, so obviously scared out of its mind.

Lancelot stared at it for a moment longer, then made a frustrated noise, squeezed his eyes tightly, and rose from his knees, pressing a hand to his forehead. Glancing back at the fox, who was watching him with an indecipherable look, its fur ruffled and ears pressed flat against its head, he shook his head. It did not seem to have any magic, otherwise it would have attacked him already. Most likely, it had indeed been forced by fey to spy.

Suddenly, he realised that it either had to report back to its masters or they had already seen what they wanted and there was then no sense in killing the innocent animal; but if they didn’t, if it had to go back, then right there was his chance at finally tracking the damned hideout they had been searching for for months. 

Fighting back a grin, Lancelot turned back to look the fox in the eye. It still remained rooted in place, watching him with those eerie eyes, but when it saw that he was not moving to attack, it rose slowly to its legs, tucking the injured one under its belly.

“Go,” he rasped, gesturing with his sword to the dark, silent woods. “Tell your masters I’m coming.”

He watched the animal limp away, then, between one blink and the next, it just disappeared. There was little else to do, after all, he could not just chase into the woods like a madman after what might as well be a feverish dream. Or an ambush — he would have definitely done that himself, pretended to be defenceless to lure the enemy further away.

Despite having a perfectly reasonable explanation, Lancelot still felt reluctant to face his brothers. There were bound to be questions about why he let the animal go in the first place — and he did not wish to worry Father more than he already did. Surely it could wait until morning when his head was clear, and he could give a better account of the strange encounter. 

A treacherous, cowardly whisper in his head told him he was on thin ice already as it was, with the esteemed guest from Rome having taken an interest in him. But that particular lot, haughty and spoiled, looking down on Father as they plotted against him, afraid of his growing influence, held no power over Lancelot’s decisions. 

It took little effort to veer out of the way of the guards — laughably little, he really needed to tell them to stop drinking quite so much. However, right now reprimanding anyone for their faith was the last thing Lancelot felt he had the right to do. Unnoticed, he slipped back inside his tent.

Someone else might have found it troubling to fall asleep after such a strange, ominous encounter. However, Lancelot had an unfortunate habit of falling asleep when he was upset as if his body was trying to wait the storm out. It was a very naive strategy, definitely not a pragmatic one, but it was also nearly impossible to argue with.

Lancelot did make a valiant effort to stay awake as he tried to puzzle over the meaning behind what had happened. In a haze, he recalled stories he had been told back in France, about the devil springing from under the ground in the shape of a fox to taunt the unwitting hunters. Yet his thoughts tangled together like yarn and his eyelids grew heavier by the moment. 

With a heavy sigh, he rolled on his side and closed his eyes, surrendering to the sleep, resorting to taking a counsel of his pillow. 


	2. flash your fine smile, so wicked and wily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Charming Disaster - Little Black Bird.

Next day, late at night, Lancelot was making his way through the forest after another day of headache-inducing attempts at tracking the elusive scent of fey, when suddenly  _ it  _ seemed to find him, drifting to his nose sharp and strong with a gust of wind. When he swirled around, his gaze immediately fell at the culprit.

Seated innocuously in the middle of the glade he had just passed, the fox tilted its head, looking at him with glowing, green eyes. It appeared to be completely healed—and, as far as he could tell, the animal looked far more pleased.

Clenching his hand around the sword pommel, Lancelot watched it, his posture straight and his face schooled into an impassive mask. He was not to show his apprehension to the enemy — even though he felt a fair share of it. The possible consequences of wandering into the woods were suddenly becoming far more grave. Perhaps, he should not have been so proud.

Lancelot swallowed thickly, eyes trained on the fox, trying to gauge how it could hurt him. It did not seem to be doing anything, not chanting any spells, but its unnatural eyes were fixed on him with unnerving focus. Tilting his head, he stood in silence for a moment longer, watching it, nothing to disturb the air between them save for the instantly freezing puffs of air on every exhale. 

Finally, he unsheathed the sword. There was no sense dragging it out any longer. Only one of them was going to leave the clearing, and, with God’s help, it would be Lancelot.

But before he could take a step closer, the fox jumped to its feet.

“Wait!”

Startling, Lancelot spun around, eyes darting between the trees as he searched for the source of the voice — but when it sounded again, he realised it was coming from behind him. Looking back at the fox, he saw it — grin.  _ Grin, _ like a human would.

“I mean no harm.”

Lancelot clutched the cross with one hand, the steel of it hard and unyielding in his palm, cold to the touch; it cooled down his feverish head, a stern reminder of how he was supposed to act. Without giving the beast a reply, he stepped closer to it, his heart hammering in his chest as the scent of magic enveloped him, swirled in the air like blood in the water, clinging to his skin. 

Flinching, Lancelot drew back and narrowed his eyes, trying to understand whether it was safe to attack. The fox just kept looking at him, its shiny black nose twitching curiously in the air as if it was scenting him, too. 

“Were you looking for me? Sorry, I was busy covering the trail so you could not follow me. It worked, didn’t it?”

Frowning, Lancelot pointed a sword at it and uttered the words of a prayer, hoping deep down that it will work and the demon will be banished without him having to slaughter what looked like a beautiful, wild animal that did not even have the decency to bare its teeth as he approached with the clear intent to kill it.

“That’s uncourteous,” the fox tilted its head to the other side. “I come in peace, and you point a sword at me.”

Gritting his teeth, Lancelot swung the blade.

The fox leapt to the side, as elusive as smoke, easily avoiding the strike. Swirling to follow it, his cloak flapping around his ankles, Lancelot attacked again, and again it dove under the blade, steel gliding over the slick red fur. Emerging on the other side unharmed, the fox leapt a few paces away, and stopped, its entire body taut as a string, almost vibrating, as it looked at him.

“I am not here to hurt you,” it implored in a startlingly soft voice, that made Lancelot want to close his eyes and swear. 

“I shan’t talk to you,” he replied in a flat voice, his throat closed with feelings. 

“Why not?” The fox sounded genuinely confused. “Maybe I seek salvation. Come on, preach to me. Convert me, if you will.”

Pausing, Lancelot took stock of the surroundings. No other scents could be found in the air, and it was unlikely they were concealed by magic — as far as he knew, fey did not seem to have such spells in their possession. For some reason, the beast has come alone and with other foxes running wild in the woods, tracking its steps would be nearly impossible; it was of no further use for Lancelot then. Tired and confused, he simply wanted the fight to be over, but the expectant silence compelled him to answer. 

“But you are a demon.”  _ Nothing good will come out of talking to you,  _ he added to himself. One way or another, it will find the way to poison his mind—there were already chips in the armour of his faith, and the mere thought of having someone tug and pry at them was terrifying.

“Am I? How are we different, then?”

Its voice was distinctly male, a pleasant baritone. Of course, it would be, Lancelot admonished himself sternly, tightening the grip on the sword. Of course, the demons would know his hidden, tainted desires, would not shy from using them to their advantage to try and corrupt him, that was what they existed for.

“I have found faith,” he explained stubbornly. “It saved me. It will save you, too.”

“Oh? How? By burning me?” The fox paused as if giving him time to reply, which he did not. “Is that what they did to you, too? Or is it the salvation you’re heading for?”

Lancelot kept silent.

“Sounds like faith found you,” the fox remarked, scratching its nose with its front paw, before looking up sharply, pinning him in place with bright green eyes that shone like two polished emeralds reflecting a fire. “Though it doesn’t look one bit like it saved you.”

“I am saving your soul,” Lancelot repeated, closing his eyes for a brief moment in annoyance and despair, even though it was a mistake, and he knew that. “I am—a sword of light. The suffering I bring will cleanse you.”

The fox blinked rapidly, a startlingly human expression, before he scoffed, its small frame shaking as it began speaking, mocking mirth colouring his voice.

“You are a fox that thinks itself—,” he dissolved into laughter, deafening in its unbridled insolence. It rang over the clearing as the fox gasped and struggled to continue, before finally exclaiming with delight, _ “—a hound!” _

Lancelot tightened the grip on the sword hilt and considered striking, yet stayed his hand. It must have been that pride talking again that his Father always lamented, but leaving the last word for the enemy did not sit right with him, tugged and itched like a shallow cut on a hand that kept getting reopened. 

Besides, the fox seemed talkative enough — perhaps he could make it spill a secret or two before killing it. After weeks of coming up empty-handed, Father would be pleased if he brought anything more of use than another fey body; and he had promised good news. 

“A dog is an honourable beast,” he replied in an even voice, the thin layer of feigned calm cooling down the heat he felt pooling in his chest. “It is a loyal servant.”

“A dog is a fool. Are you one?” The fox winced, a funny but bitter grimace twisting its features. “Despite how willing you are to listen to Carden’s lies instead of seeing that he himself embodies the sin, I doubt that you are a fool. Then what are you? A liar? A murderer?” 

Every word stung as if he was struck with nettle across the face, too fast to even realise it burned before it was already drawn away. A bitter taste rose in his throat and coated his mouth as Lancelot considered slicing the fox’s throat right there. Present its glorious hide to Father. Have it made into a trophy—have it mock him every day, a red, taunting banner of wilderness, a reminder of someone who died but did not surrender...

“Oh, oh, wait, I know.”

The snow was soaking Lancelot’s boots, and the cold was creeping under his cloak as he stood in detached, cold silence, not prompting — there did not seem to be any need for that — as he waited for the punchline.

“A kinslayer.”

A punchline, indeed, he thought, trying to suck a breath in and not even managing that. Even his thoughts sounded so far-away as the world tilted, narrowed, the black threads on the edges of his vision spinning and thickening until all he could see were the cruel, knowing eyes of that bloody fox.

Steeling himself, he lifted the sword, which suddenly required so much effort that his hand trembled. It hadn’t happened in years. When he tried to tighten the grip, his fingers spasmed, squirming like pale grave worms. 

Overcome with a wave of nausea, Lancelot gritted his teeth and tried to steady himself with a shaky inhale. The avenging sword of the church did not shake like an aspen leaf on the wind. The avenging sword…

“Go to hell,” Lancelot forced out in a strained voice, and deep inside, he was not sure who he was even talking to right now. He was shaking in earnest now, his entire frame wracked with shivers. There was a hint of pity in the fox’s eyes as it stared back at him without even trying to move out of the way of his blade.

Why was he not scared, Lancelot wondered, damn near hysterical by now, as he stepped closer. Why was he allowing him to come closer, bright green eyes full of pity?

Despite the distant screaming in his head, his body knew how to move, a deeply ingrained flow taking over and carrying out the sentence without him putting any thought into movement. The blade swung in a wide arc, fell to the ground, and the endpoint of its descent was inevitable—

—and it sank into the snow, slicing clean through the ice crust. 

When Lancelot twirled around, thrusting out again, the fox was no longer next to him. In fact, it disappeared completely.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand, he stared at the empty place for a moment longer, before snapping out of it and frantically looking around. 

It was only then that it hit Lancelot that the demons had lured him away, they had him alone, at the mercy of their magic, and he was still, miraculously, alive. Perhaps the Lord was watching over him, after all, he told himself; perhaps, the fox was there to test his faith. If so, then he might have blundered the trial, but at least he still had a chance to try again. It was all he hoped for, truly, on every given day.

He stalked around the clearing in circles, until the black ground started to peek through the trenches left by his boots, but it was as if the fox had vanished into thin air. With lips numb from the cold, he muttered a short prayer, before stopping and turning to head back to the camp. 

Still reeling under the heavy layer of exhaustion, he firmly told himself that the only reason to be upset was that he couldn’t kill the cursed beast. Hopefully, Lancelot thought, it will appear again, and then he will be ready.

~

In the morning, during the meagre breakfast that followed the mass, Lancelot sat in silence, a piece of grey, bland bread clutched in his fingers. Eyes staring unseeingly into the distance, he debated the best way to tell Father about the encounter.

In the end, he came to the conclusion that the best way to tell was not to tell at all.

It was, undoubtedly, a sin. Or at least it bordered dangerously close, not a direct lie, by a lie by omission nevertheless. For a wretched creature like him, wandering so close to that moral grey line was a far greater risk than it was for his brothers.

Yes, his brothers; like those sitting a bit further down at the dining table. The ones who, assuming he could not hear them, were currently boasting about the defenseless villagers they had killed and young girls they had raped. It was a long time since they had had a fey cunt, they said.

Throwing the piece of bread down, Lancelot stood up, picking up his swords. The murmurs died down immediately, wary glances thrown his way from the shadowed corner in which the men were huddled together. Not looking back at them — mostly for the sake of not killing them right where they sat — Lancelot stepped out of the tent and into the crisp, dim light of an early February morning.

The sun had not risen yet, the haze of the dawn coloured in broad strokes of pink and grey, shrouding the camp and softening the harsh, rough lines of its structures. It dimmed the bleeding crimson of the banners and concealed the sharp outlines of the crosses erected on the border to ward off the fey. The dawn was beautiful; but it did nothing to soothe the ache in Lancelot’s chest, only magnifying and aggravating the sharp shards of confusion and pain piercing his throat on every inhale of frosty sobering air.

If he were to seek just punishment for his wicked brothers, it would perhaps be easier to just set the entire camp on fire. Perhaps, he should do that.

Shivering, Lancelot ran a hand over his face again, blinking rapidly as he stared at the moist on his fingers, not recognising immediately what it was. Ironic, almost, given his ever-weeping eyes. With a frown, Lancelot took a deep inhale to steady himself. He stepped to the side, watching the men go about their chores around him, as he contemplated whether or not bring again to the superior’s attention that most of them were untrained bullies that created more problems than they solved—not to mention were undermining the reputation of the order with their baseness.

Ultimately, he decided against telling Father about this incident, either. The preacher was acutely aware of this problem with his followers already, often lamenting their lack of resolve to withstand the base urges.

Privately, Lancelot had never quite understood what urges those were. He had never felt the desire to rape or even attack first, only doing the latter when he was ordered to. His killings were, mostly, clean and precise, nothing more than was needed to send the creature he was sicced on to the other side.

When he realised the word he chose to describe it, Lancelot flinched and exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. The damned fox got under his skin, after all.

But, being a wretched creature himself, he still refrained from seeking out the chance to confess. Those confessions always led to the same result, punishment and pain, holy men trying to burn out the things in him that just kept growing back, wild weeds of doubt. The sacred words never offered clarity that could keep the confusion Lancelot felt at bay for longer than a week.

And thus, every week, he had to mortify his flesh, to strengthen his spirit. Today was the day, as well. Today, turning his face away from the gentle, quiet colours of the dawn, Lancelot made his way into the heated darkness of his tent, the air there suffocatingly heavy with incense from the candles burning near the cross.

Today, as every day, Lancelot atoned for his sin, always the same one, the only sin that mattered in the tapestry of them that the war wove, the sin of being born to a wrong mother. At least he could breathe easier this time—the candles were almost gone, the mere stumps that gave more smoke than light.

His knees hit the frozen ground. Shrugging out of the tunic, Lancelot folded it carefully to the side and wrapped his palm around the black leather handle.

The scourge landed hard on his back, making him grit his teeth so hard they ached. The shrewd blue eyes supervising his punishment followed the rise and fall of his hand unblinkingly. Acutely aware of being watched, Lancelot did his best not to let any of his doubt bleed into his expression. Thankfully, Father seemed too distracted by watching his back bleed.

“You are silent today,” the old man noticed evenly, closing the book he pretended to be reading. “Is there something bothering you, my son?”

The inquiring, knowing voice felt as if someone dug a shovel into Lancelot’s chest and pried the ribs open, uncovering all the secrets he had buried there. The weight of the stare on his back made him slither away like a snake he was, hide somewhere and just hibernate for the winter, sleep through all of this, wake up on the other side of this never-ending nightmare, day ones bleeding into the night ones, feeding off each other.

“No, Father.”

The old priest sighed, and the bottom dropped out of Lancelot’s stomach. Chest heaving for breath, he paused with his hand still in the air, the bloodied leather tip resting against his burning skin. 

“There should be,” Father noticed evenly.

Swallowing thickly around a lump in his throat, Lancelot stared at the patch of frozen ground laying under the rickety table on which the cross stood. They have dropped that cross, he abruptly remembered with startling clarity, when moving camp. It landed into the frozen sludge, a splatter of mud over the noble metal. He had looked at it then, some unnamed feeling twisting his gut, the same one he had from that scent he’d caught now—

“Because the winter is coming to an end and we are no closer to bringing an end to this plague. I have no doubt the victory will be ours, for such is the will of God, but we must do our part. You must do your part.”

—the faint scent of salt and musk that wafted from the red robes as Carden moved to stand right behind him, his low, soothing rumble sending a chill down Lancelot’s spine. Faint as it was, it was unmistakable, a sharp undertone that did not belong to the sombre chorus of incense drifting from the candles burning on the table. 

Suddenly, having the old man stand where Lancelot could not see him, as they had done times and times before, no longer felt remotely safe. It was no longer his protector and mentor who sheltered Lancelot from the world as he atoned for his sin. It was someone who was lusting after his blood.

It was an enemy. It had always been an enemy.

The scars, new and old, flared up with pain when he stiffened. He could not mistake the scent for anything else, and there was very little explanation his frantic, struggling mind could conjure to justify it. The kernel of cold fury buried deep inside him, the one that drove him to bare his teeth, it put an end to him grasping at straws, smothered it as easily as one smothers an infant in their cradle. Or steals him.

“Father?” Lancelot spoke up, his voice just as quiet as always, as the raging, feral storm tore at the inside of his head, growling and snapping its teeth at the man he no longer recognised—or finally recognised for what he was.

“Yes, my son?” Carden replied, the book clutched against his chest, the golden letters gleaming against the dark leather cover, taunting Lancelot with the mystery they held.

“What will happen to me when we win?”

The heavy silence fell, far heavier than the strikes that were landing on his back. His blood cooled in streaks, drying and tugging unpleasantly at the skin. 

“You will find peace,” Carden finally uttered, so quietly, his voice could barely be heard over the cold wind wailing outside, throwing handfuls of snow against the walls of the tent.

In silence, Lancelot bowed his head and brought the whip to his skin again.

~

_ several years ago, Gaul _

“Father?”

“What is it?”

Shirt clutched to his chest, Lancelot falls silent, warily listening to the breathing of the man, trying to decipher whether he had missed a sign and angered him somehow. 

However, despite the words, Father’s voice is even and low, and his hands are patient when they dab the gauze soaked in warm wine and honey to a healing cut on Lancelot’s side, before drawing away. So, Lancelot speaks, quiet but clear, as he buries his head in his hands, fingers carding through tousled hair:

“Why cannot others of my folk atone? Why only me?”

What he really asks is,  _ Why must I be alone?  _ He is sixteen, you know. Other boys his age, well… The human ones are turning into men, tasting sweet lips and passing those kisses to the crosses the priests hold up for them, before they go to exchange some more in the training yard, steel kissing steel; while the fey ones, they are all dead by now. 

He is the only one who survived the trials the holy men put them through, fire and water and steel. The faun boy drowned, and the moonwing boy burnt, and the snake boy was taken down by a lance. The human boys laughed a bit then, saying it was fitting, something about Saint George. Lancelot did not make out the exact words, his ears ringing as he looked at the bloodied shaft of the lance in his shaking pale hand.

Why only him, indeed?

“You were chosen.”

“By whom?” Lancelot wonders, hugging his knees as Father roughly runs a hairbrush through his tangled curls. They are darkening, no longer the spun gold he had as a child. All of him is changing, his narrow shoulders broadening, his voice cracking and uneven patches of fuzzy stubble growing on his chin. He is aching in some places and finds the startling pleasure in others, but none of it explains why he has lived long enough to do it.

“By our Lord,” Father answers evenly, yanking a bit harder on the stubborn knot. Lancelot winces, but doesn’t draw away, strangely reassured by the warm heavy hand on his shoulder, over the ridges of fragile bones. 

“How do you know?”

Father pauses, puts the brush away and glances to the side, his fingers squeezing Lancelot’s shoulder a bit tighter. The birds are chirping outside the narrow window, the mellow May breeze blowing through it and billowing the white curtain separating the sections of the room to hide Lancelot’s cot from the others. 

It does not matter right now — it’s Sunday, the boys are all in the town, on a spring fair, accompanying adult friars as they trade cheese and beer produced at the abbey. Lancelot is never allowed to trail along, but he spends time climbing trees, robbing bird nests and orchards, practising with a sword. Sometimes, Father keeps him company, as he does now.

His hand is heavy on Lancelot’s shoulder, its palm rough from manual labour and wielding a sword. There is a faint scent of salt and musk in the air, but it is hardly surprising, it sticks to every bedsheet in the room, no matter how many times they launder it. The warm wind helps a bit, or it would if not for the oaks growing outside.

Sniffling, Lancelot turns his head, scratching his itching nose on his forearm, and Carden shifts behind him, picking up the brush again as he speaks.

“It was written in the holy books, Lancelot. The scripture foretold your arrival.”

~

His body knew how to hunt and kill, but very little besides that. He could make sense out of the prints on the ground, but not the letters on a page; he was simply never taught the latter. Laying in his bed, his back still bleeding as he stared at the weather-beaten washed-out white linen of the tent ceiling, Lancelot was starting to think it might have been an oversight.


	3. little black bird, help me find my way

A few days passed, the storm brewing in Lancelot’s soul. It felt as if some invisible force of habit, the inertia of will hauled his body around like a lifeless puppet clutched by its head, so heavy with thoughts it kept bowing down. Stubbornly ignoring it, Lancelot tracked the footprints that all lead to nothing.

It happened now, too, the trail just breaking off, as if fey who had left them had taken flight. Who knew, perhaps they had. When Lancelot tried to point it out that the steps belonged to a child, and there was no need to track it further, as it would surely die alone before reaching safety—those woods were prowling with more than just foxes, and the frost was merciless at night—Father hit him.

It was not the first time, but this time, it took all in Lancelot not to bite back.

Clenching his jaw tight, he listened to the quiet seething words, each one so frantic and poised to hurt, it felt as if he was hailed by a rain of barbed arrows. The same accusations from before resurfaced, pride and purpose dangled in front of Lancelot like a carrot as Carden spat out insults with vitriol dripping from his tongue that any snake would envy.

The long days of observations crystallised into a conclusion, as Lancelot stared wordlessly back at the furious ruddy face. No man who truly had no doubt in his victory would act like that. Right now, Carden looked nothing like a proud prophet, leading a holy mission against the evil. Quite the opposite, in fact: he looked like an old, tired man who bit off more than he could chew and now threaded on thin ice, his control slipping.

He looked, Lancelot realised, afraid.

The sight of it ignited a spark in his stomach that went out almost immediately, as he smothered it frantically, trying not to let any of what he felt reflect on his face. Thankfully, even if he did slip, Carden did not notice, already turning away to shout for the other paladins to mount their horses—they were returning back to the camp.

Heart beating wildly, Lancelot parted his lips, a puff of white air escaping his sore throat.

“Father?” he rasped.

Throwing him a withering glare, the man paused, one foot already in the stirrup.

“May I stay behind to investigate more?”

Carden pursed his lips, a frown creasing his forehead. 

“It’s getting dark,” he remarked coldly, and pushed himself up in the saddle, picking up the reins. “If you haven’t found anything now, you surely won’t be able to do it at night.”

“God will guide me if such is his will,” Lancelot argued calmly, then, at the flash of anger crossing Carden’s features, hastily rearranged his features into a pleading expression. “I beg you. Let me try to bring you good news. Perhaps, I will find another sign.”

Mouth twisted in a displeased grimace and frown growing deeper, Carden glanced between him and the trees, among which the dusk settled, colouring the snow purple and blue. Unmoved and silent, Lancelot awaited his reply. Behind the old priest’s back, the fires of the camp were burning in the distance, red flames licking up. Behind his own back, he knew, lay only darkness and wilderness.

The silent stalemate broke with Carden’s firm nod.

“Do not lose your way, son,” he threw to him, turning the horse around and disappearing in the darkness as he caught up with the rest of the paladins already riding towards the camp, eager to be out of the cold woods.

The silence settling back on the snow around him, Lancelot waited until the noise of horses and men moved sufficiently far away. Then he tossed his head back and exhaled heavily, watching the fog drift up to the starry dark skies before closing his eyes.

He stood like that for a long moment, simply listening to the soft rustle of mice in the underbrush, the whisper of wind in the bare branches, the crackle of ice and gurgling of water in the nearby stream, too swift to freeze over. The moonlight was streaming through the scattered clouds, and the subdued, peaceful beauty of it illuminating the patches of snow over the ground soothed the ache in his chest.

Just when he thought it was time for him to start moving before frostbite took his toes, a dry twig snapped, and a familiar scent hit his nose right after.

 _Go away,_ Lancelot pleaded wordlessly, not opening his eyes _, please, go away._ He was not sure for whose sake he was praying, whether he was terrified the fox would finally hurt him or whether he would have to hurt the fox.

However, the scent did not retreat. Exhaling through his nose and clenching his fist, Lancelot opened his eyes. When he looked down from the vast winter sky, sure enough, the fox was there, frozen at the edge of the clearing with one paw in the air, his whiskers twitching as he sniffed the air. 

Their gazes met, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. The beast seemed to have indeed recovered from the wound, Lancelot noticed with detached interest, not even slightly nursing the injured leg. 

First things first, though.

“Are you the Devil?” he exhaled with a resigned air.

“Well, I’ve been called that on occasion,” the fox grinned, small sharp teeth glinting against its velvety dark mouth, and lowered his paw. “But no.”

“An enchanted animal, then?” Lancelot backtracked to his first guess, ignoring the invitation to join in on the joke he did not get.

The fox frowned, short dark streaks of its eyebrows pulling together. “Enchanted, maybe, enchanting, sure, but I am definitely not an animal.”

Lancelot tilted his head, curious despite himself. He had never seen a demon that did not hide behind a vaguely human face, that was bold enough to show off its bestial nature like that. Perhaps, he should try to catch the fox and make him talk. Brother Salt would surely be ecstatic about such an unusual guest at his kitchens… Sadistic fuck that he was.

“What kind of demon are you then?” Lancelot asked, not moving an inch.

“Alright, mate, stop calling me that.” The fox sat and curled his tail around his paws, cocking his head to the side. “Can’t you tell? I am what I smell like.”

“See, you say you are not an animal, but it’s animals who know each other by scent, not humans,” Lancelot argued in a low, desperate voice. It always made more sense when Father said that.

The fox snorted. It was still confusing how he managed to produce such human sounds without having anything that remotely resembled a human throat and mouth. It was a pretty neat trick, Lancelot was forced to admit. 

“You can tell by their settlements, yes,” the fox muttered. “Only creatures with no scent of smell can live there.”

Lancelot scoffed and tilted his head, 

“So, you’re just fey, then.” There was a flicker of hope in his chest that he did not catch in time, could not smother before it seeped into his voice, unravelling it into something soft and lilting, a long-forgotten accent. Clearing his throat, he continued, once again low and hoarse. “Not—something worse.”

“Aha,” the fox cheers, tipping its nose up in triumph. “Finally.”

“What?”

“You just finally admitted fey are not the worst there is. Perhaps next time you will even admit you are one yourself.”

“Didn’t you know?” Lancelot wondered softly, slowly lowering himself on the ground. He was tired, so drained from not having enough food and sleep, the lashes on his back still sore like hell. “You called me a kinslayer.”

“Yeah, no need to sound so sour about that, you tried to stab me in reply. And I wasn’t sure, I just suspected.”

“Wasn’t it enough?” Lancelot asked, curious despite himself, and he should really stop talking to that fox and get to killing it, but it had grown boring to just keep slashing and hacking at living beings. He could always do it after he got the answers. Those were a far greater rarity in this crusade than corpses.

“I suspect a lot,” the fox shrugged, a bizarrely human gesture. “Not all of it turns out to be true. It’s called critical thinking.”

“Couldn’t you tell with magic? Or by scent?”

“I wish,” the fox muttered, turning his head to lick a long stripe over the red fur. “My life would have been much easier if I could scent like you.”

“What do you mean?” Lancelot frowned.

The fox gave him an askance glance, regarding him in silence. After a pause, he seemed to have been deemed worthy.

“I am looking for a boy,” he explained, a bit reluctantly. “I have heard he ran into these woods. It is not safe there. He needs me to find him.”

Lancelot looked at him in silence for a long moment, then swallowed thickly, his eyes moving slowly to the trails of footprints that had led him into this situation.

“What do you want from him?” he wondered quietly, not looking at the fox.

A short moment of fraught silence followed.

“I want to bring him home. He is my friend.”

With a slow shaky exhale, Lancelot bit his lip and clenched a hand on the sword. 

“There,” he rasped out, not recognising his own voice, and nodded in the direction of the tracks. “There are child footprints.”

“Where?!” The fox exclaimed, leaping to his feet and dashing across the clearing so fast that Lancelot startled, drawing the sword before he even realised he was doing that. The animal—fey—did not bother even looking at him, as he circled the trail of small narrow imprints in the snow. He was limping a bit, it seemed, barely there, but noticeable to a keen eye.

“Oh, praised be Ernmas,” the fox murmured, letting out a relieved sigh. “I thought I lost the trail for good—he is so good at hiding, stupid, self-sacrificing little squirrel…”

“Squirrel?” Lancelot frowned, taking a step closer. “But… the prints are human.”

The fox paused mumbling under his breath and looked up, his sly green eyes finding Lancelot again and holding his confused gaze. The silence between them grew taut, as they stood on the opposite sides of the narrow trails of small footprints.

“It’s a nickname,” the fox replied finally. “He is just a boy, but he likes climbing trees and swinging a sword around, thinking himself a hero. I have a feeling you would get each other. Thank you, by the way.”

Lancelot nodded before he belatedly realised he could follow the fox now, catch up with them both—kill him and the boy—or capture them, drag them to the camp—use them as a bait—

—or he could play a longer game. Perhaps it could bear more fruit.

“Do you owe me, now?” Lancelot clarified curiously, tilting his head to the side. The fox still did not tell him what kind of fey it was, so perhaps for this one, the tales were more accurate than for the others. Even for Lancelot his true name compelled him to obey the one who used it, albeit it did not control him completely.

“You wish,” the fox snorted, pulling a bit back and pacing for a moment. “But if I did—well, I actually might, you let me live, after all—what would you ask for?”

With a sharp inhale, Lancelot tightened the grip on the cross-adorned hilt and swallowed, his nostrils flaring. The moonlight reflected in the green irises fixed on him, illuminating them eerily, but he refused to back down. He could no longer ignore the omissions, the inconsistencies, the slip-ups. 

He had tried asking Father, at the beginning of the campaign. The request had been met with an angry instruction to go busy himself with his real work and leave the scripture to someone who knew what they were doing. 

Well, how on earth was he supposed to know anything, if they never let him learn? Tangled in a web of lies, dangling above the abyss by a single thread, he had to know if at least that thread was true.

“Can you teach me how to read?” he asked in a quiet voice, his heart hammering against his ribs. Here he was, trading favours with the devil — and yet it felt so right as if he had finally found the golden thread in the dark maze after years of stumbling around.

Stunned, the fox froze, staring at him with wide eyes. It was an expression more often found on prey than on predators. It took him a moment to snap out of it, and then he nodded. 

“That I can do for free,” he informed Lancelot. “Meet me in the woods by the creek tomorrow noon. Bring a book.”

Lancelot could not find the voice to reply, his throat seized by relief and fearful anticipation at once, so he simply gave a short nod. Nodding back, the fox ran to the edge of the clearing, but paused at the border, turning back to face him.

“It’s a date.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Lancelot inhaled deeply, but before he could answer, the fox swished his luxuriant tail and disappeared into the thick twilight shadows.

~

“Lancelot? Where are you going?” Carden paused, a faint frown crossing his brow. “Have you found anything?”

“I am looking, Father,” Lancelot replied curtly, stopping on his way out of camp. “I found a sign.”

The old man frowned. “And? Does it lead to their hideout?”

“It points north, that is all I know,” he replied evasively, studying the dark blue eyes briefly before lowering his gaze. “But I will find it. Do not worry.”

After a short pause, Carden gave him a firm nod, and raised his chin, squinting at the paladins gathered around the campfire nearby. “Take your brothers with you.”

Slowly, Lancelot shook his head, his voice falling to a raspy whisper as he stared at the golden-masked guards stationed at the tent of His Excellency. “They will only slow me down. I’d rather they stay here—protect you while I am gone.”

~

The bushes rustled ominously, and a familiar red muzzle appeared out of them, sniffing the air once.

“Huh,” the fox uttered, sounding surprised as he crawled out. “Not an ambush.”

Lancelot pointedly kept silent, even though he had to admit it had been his first reaction, as well. Sheathing the sword, he stood a bit straighter, eyeing the fox, who did the same. The silence stretched.

“Alright,” the fox announced, sitting into the snow and curling his tail around. “The terms. I don’t fool you—you don’t stab me. Uh… Do you—know any letters at all?”

Ignoring the blush creeping on his cheeks, Lancelot shook his head. He did in fact know three of them, but decided to keep it to himself, see if the fox tried to fool him. He had never before considered it much of a problem, but under the dubious green gaze, it suddenly felt like a major flaw he was dying to get rid of.

“It’s alright,” his unexpected helper assured in a cautious, gentle tone. “You will have to turn the pages, because — well. Paws. But I’ll read to you, and you can understand what sound each letter corresponds to.”

With a stiff nod, Lancelot marched over to the fallen log, brushed off the thin layer of snow laying on the trunk and lowered himself on it. Pulling out a small bible he had pocketed in the commotion of the Yvoire Abbey, he took a deep breath and opened it.

~

The sun was shining bright, thawing the ice off the branches all around them and making the forest glow and sing with dripping droplets, a promise of soon spring. It was also worsening Lancelot’s headache immensely.

“Oh Lord,” he breathed out, lowering the book, and winced when the sunlight hit him right in the eye, flaring up the pounding ache in his temples. “Why is it so difficult? Isn’t there—a spell, or something, to make me literate?”

“Oho-ho-ho,” the fox sighed wistfully, uncrossing his paws and standing up, stretching, arching an elegant curve of his back. “How glorious would it be—but alas. You’re doing really well, actually. You’re just tired. A break?”

Lancelot did not reply, staring at the unyielding letters that blurred before his eyes. He rubbed at his face with a ruddy, numb hand, and let out a tired sigh. It would take ages for him to read this tome, and he simply did not have that much time.

Magic or not, the fox seemed to read his morose thoughts.

“Are you looking for something specific?” he clarified hesitantly, and when Lancelot nodded stiffly, he fidgeted, glancing back at the bible. “I can read it to you? You know the letters, so you can check now if you don’t trust me. Great, right?” He beamed.

Giving the chatty beast a sceptic sidelong glance, Lancelot considered the offer. The fox looked honest, as much as one could with a sly red muzzle for a face, and it was not like Lancelot had any other choice. 

So, he nodded again and pushed the open book a bit closer to the fox.

~

“God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him…” The fox trailed off, turning his muzzle to the side, and Lancelot used the opportunity to pipe in that was worrying him more and more with every passage.

“It really says that?”

“Uhu,” the fox confirmed, and then yawned again, stifling it by sticking his nose into the furry shoulder. He exhaled heavily, his green eyes slightly dim and eyelids drooping. “Sorry. No sleep. Fucking Squirrel. I love him, but that escapade was terrible.”

“Have you found him?” Lancelot asked quietly, not raising his eyes from his clasped hands, knuckles red and weatherbeaten.

“Yes. He is alright, in case you were worried.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Uhu,” the fox repeated, not sounding the slightest bit convinced, then stretched his left paw, right paw, and nodded at the book. “More?”

“Yes, please,” Lancelot murmured, clasping his hands tighter and straightening a bit.

Huffing softly, the fox edged a bit closer, squinting at the paragraph in the book that laid open on the dry patch of dark ground in front of him. “The Lord tests the righteous, but his soul hates the wicked—the one who loves violence...”

Lancelot’s heart skipped a beat. “And anything about me—us..?”

“Nothing.”

Lancelot fell silent. He had never been more confused.

“I think I see a general problem,” the fox murmured, yawning again, before snapping his jaws closed. “Are you always that trusting? I could be…” He paused, nose twitching and eyes slightly glazed over before he found the words. “I don’t know, feeding you lies.”

Naturally, Lancelot had considered that. He was, however, reassured by the idea of being able to check any passages that contradicted the teachings of his Father too much. So far, it seemed to be every other one — so the progress was still slow, as he snatched the book every now and then. Right now, though, it seemed he needed to seize something else to put the fear of God into a sly beast.

“Oh, I should not have said that,” the said beast sighed, then looked up when he slowly pulled the book away from him, and leapt to his feet. “Alright, Monk, wait—wait! Ah, fuck!”

Dodging the strike of the dagger, the devilish animal dashed to the side, his hackles raised and ears flattened. Lancelot gave chase, but he could not compare in speed with a spooked and very determined wild predator.

“Wait!” the said predator shouted as he ran. “Wait! I fucking beseech thee!”

“You lying bastard!” Lancelot growled, raising his sword again, but slipping on the ice and barely catching himself in time. He still fell with a heavy _oef,_ but at least he did not break his ankle.

“I am not lying!” the fox yelled from a couple paces away. “I swear, I am not!”

Baring his teeth, Lancelot stopped flailing and glared at the animal as it cautiously took a tiny step back, its fur sticking up and eyes glinting warily.

“Just think logically,” the fox implored in a soothing voice. “What have I said so far? Loving thy neighbour or at least not burning him on the cross, and all that. That your god—that he is love. What do I gain from telling you that?”

“Your hide,” Lancelot said, his voice coming out like a growl again, as he watched the fox edge a bit closer, one small step after another, his ears still laying flat against the ruffled fur.

The fox stopped, eyeing him. “I will bite, and I might have rabies. You don’t know.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lancelot sighed, waving a dismissive hand at him. “You’re driving me insane as you are.”

“Is that a compliment?” the fox perked up, a ridiculously pleased look spreading across its muzzle.

“No,” Lancelot deadpanned, and lunged forward, grabbing the animal by the neck in an iron grip. 

A short struggle ensued, and, despite the numerous scratches on his hands, Lancelot prevailed, pinning the slippery animal to the ground, before picking him up by the scruff. Hind legs dangling uselessly in the air, the fox snarled in his face and tried to scratch at him, but he shook him firmly, and he quieted, glaring at him with burning green eyes.

“Got you,” Lancelot breathed in the pointy ear, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth, and the fox whimpered, twisting around as he tried to bite his nose off. Swearing, Lancelot dropped the feral animal, and stepped away when it jumped up, aiming for his crotch, sharp teeth snapping at the air just an inch away from his cock.

“Stop it! I am not going to hurt you!” _Without you I’ll never get through that passage,_ he didn’t say.

The fox snarled and attacked his pant leg, tearing a piece out before he managed to shake him off, sending him flying in a low arch to the nearest ditch. It was piled high with snow — the wild thing would probably get away without any broken bones. His pants, on the other hand...

“Jesu, do you _have_ rabies?!” Lancelot shouted in frustration, bending over to inspect the long tear above his knee. Not only was the cold creeping in, but he would also need to explain that one to Father.

“Come closer and see for yourself!” came a muffled shout.

“Why don’t you come closer?!”

“I’m stuck!”

Frowning in confusion, Lancelot glanced up from pinching the edges of the torn fabric together in an attempt to keep the cold out. On silent feet, he stalked to the edge of the ditch to discover a very sullen looking fox sitting at the bottom of it. Closer inspection revealed the walls were covered with ice, so every time the fox tried to crawl out, it slid back down, leaving long scratches in the dirt.

Sighing, Lancelot plopped on the ground, reaching out a hand. Despite his fear, his fingers were not immediately bitten off, but the plan had another major flaw.

“I can’t take it,” the fox said dryly, shooting him a dirty look as he tried in vain to jump up. “And you are _not_ picking me up like _that_ ever again. Bastard.”

“Jesu,” said Lancelot with another sigh, before jumping down into the ditch as well. When he reached to pick the animal up, it—frowned? Yes, frowned at him, but crawled into his arms without any further attempts at biting him. The fox was very warm, unexpectedly heavy, and also fidgeted so much that he had trouble not dropping it again, almost wondering if he should when a precise kick of a hind paw landed in his stomach.

It was, overall, a very undignified experience for them both. However, they managed to get out of the ditch together with no serious injuries, save for their respect for each other and themselves. Lowering the unruly fox to the ground, Lancelot rocked back and forth on his heels and sighed again.

“For a demon, you’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“Shut up,” the fox bristled, shaking the snow off its fur. “If you tell anyone about this, I will bite your balls off. That is, if you still have any?”

Ignoring the lewd question, Lancelot ran a hand over his face, then winced, smelling wet fox fur, and hastened to crouch down and wipe his palms with a handful of snow. 

“Who will I even tell?” he asked, not raising his eyes from the ice thawing on his palm, then closed his fist around it. The cold hurt, a burning sensation piercing from fingers to elbow, but he let it.

The fox shifted next to him and scoffed bitterly. “I don’t know. Your—brothers in harm.”

“In arms, you mean,” Lancelot corrected.

“I know what I mean.” 

They were silent for a bit, the woods around them only highlighting the heaviness of the silence that reigned with how the bright sunlight filtered through the pine trees.

“Come,” the fox grumbled. “Let’s continue with the letters. You still mistake b for d sometimes.” He snickered: “Almighty Gob.”

~

The lessons continued, and with every day, Lancelot grew more and more agitated. At first, he was still at that early stage of crisis where he had a faint hope he misunderstood something. There were many sacred texts, after all, and even more ways to interpret them.

However, two days later, they were half-way through the bible he had. There was still not a single remark encountered about saving souls by crucifying and burning people. Not even the faintest hint—and nothing about his destiny, either.

While Lancelot was growing restless, the fox was growing bored. It resulted in him pacing back and forth through the clearing, wearing a trench in the snow, while the fox pawed at the pages as one would at a curiously coloured, but disgusting looking insect. Lancelot had half a mind to tell the demon to be more respectful but was swept away by another wave of anxious circling and forgot.

“Do you have some lighter reading, no?” The fox inquired, glancing up at him. “I seriously cannot read this book anymore. The language is killing me. Oh, you should try it—instead of poking people with a hot iron, you just read to them. Same effect, less effort.”

A choking sound escaped Lancelot’s throat and he stopped abruptly, swaying with the inertia as he struggled to find his voice.

“How can you joke about that?” he forced out.

“I joke because otherwise, I will go insane,” the fox replied evenly. “Also, if you laugh at something, it means you are not afraid of it. Or so I like to tell myself.”

Speechless, Lancelot just stared back at the fox, struggling to comprehend all that has been packed into three little phrases. He might not have been literate, but he knew precisely how to read between the lines, and the mere glimpse at something not so unflappable under this carefree mask terrified him.

Oblivious to his turmoil, the fox scratched at his nose and looked up again. “But seriously. Do you have non-religious books? Or have you burnt them all already?”

“We don’t burn books,” Lancelot frowned automatically. The fox threw him an unimpressed look, and he paused, lowering his eyes before adding: “Not all of them. Not… the true ones.”

“How did you know a true one from a false one if you could not read them?” The fox cocked his head to the side.

“Father… showed me what would be written on the covers of the books I had to save.”

Under the heavy green gaze, his skin crawled and Lancelot hunched his shoulders, trying to shield himself from the disapproval that radiated in waves from the tiny frame. It was an instinct, completely out of his control, even though logically he realised that disapproval of a demon should have been an encouragement.

It did not feel like that. Not at all. But then, to his surprise, no mocking, no taunt or jeers came — just a single heavy sigh.

“You poor fucking thing,” the fox muttered, shaking his head. “Come on. Let’s bring you into the light—gods. Gods, did I just say that? I give you permission to kick me—once. Gently, gently, don’t get excited..!”

At that moment, the bell rang through the air, a distant but loud sound summoning believers to the prayer. Startled, Lancelot shot up, slipped on a patch of ice and nearly fell, swearing frantically as he snatched the book and hid it under his cloak.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” he asked breathlessly, and the fox gave a small firm nod.

Grinning at him, Lancelot rushed back to the camp, cheeks smarting from the cold as he was coming up with another lie on the fly, an elusive trail of fake fey signs leading further and further north with every day.

~

“I don’t talk to them.”

The fox looked up from the bible. “Who?”

“My brothers,” Lancelot elaborated, staring straight ahead. The fox followed his eyes with a frown, but there was nothing for him to see — just sunlight filtering through the snowy branches, scattering over the white patches strewn across the black ground. 

The scent of fey wafted off the red fur, as the fox shifted next to him, the hair on his side brushing against Lancelot’s arm. “Why?”

That scent mingled perfectly with the forest — far better than the stench of burning bodies and ashes. It was peaceful; quiet. It quieted the whispers in his head, those dark slithering voices, until all that was left was the chirping of birds and the measured breathing of a living, friendly creature curled up next to him.

“There is something wrong with them,” Lancelot said quietly. “There is something wrong with this entire campaign.”

~

The fox nudged his hand with his wet black nose, and Lancelot’s breath hitched before he realised it was done out of mere curiosity. There seemed to be no hidden desire to inflict violence or bespell him behind the simple gesture. If it was a ploy — it most likely was, he just could not see the endgame — he was willing to applaud the acting abilities. 

Then, again, it might have been easier when one did not exactly have a face. Even though this muzzle was unbelievably expressive. 

Right now, it was set into an expression of amiable, playful curiosity, the nose twitching and the short white whiskers bristling as the fox sniffed his hand. Charmed by this display of innocence, Lancelot let himself fall for the trick. 

Reaching out to run a fingertip up his nose, he marvelled at how soft the red fur was. He tilted his head, trying to make out if there was a sign or anything etched on its throat. 

“How do you speak?” 

“Magic,” the fox deadpanned, and Lancelot huffed, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth up.

Growing bolder, he traced his finger over the dark eyebrow, up to the velvety ear. The caress did not meet any resistance, just a slightly wary look of bright green eyes. Encouraged, Lancelot lifted his hand to scratch the fox between the ears, and at that the animal scoffed loudly, wrangling his head free and batting his hand away with one paw.

Huffing out a laugh, Lancelot drew his hand back and watched how the fox scratched viciously at his muzzle, before settling next to him again. He was radiating warmth, long soft fur brushing against Lancelot’s wrist. His hands itched to slide over it, but he did not move, merely studying the red strands threaded through with gold.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly, then swallowed hard. “Mine is Lancelot.”

The fox yawned, his delicate jaws unhinging into a dark, moist maw, sharp needles of white, too white teeth standing out in a silent threat. He barely had the wits to yank his hand away, but the fox just ran his long red tongue over the fangs, shut the jaws with a click, and tilted his head.

“Gawain,” he said.


	4. i run to you through knee-deep snow to drink you in like water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Melnitza - Kitsune.

“Gawain?”

“Yes?”

“Can you… hunt a rabbit for me?”

“... I am sorry, what? No, wait, I heard you—but why do you suddenly need a rabbit?”

“I—said that I went hunting. And I couldn’t catch anything today.”

Truth is, he had not even tried, tired to the point of being nauseated by the mere idea of chasing anyone through the woods ever again in his life. For a moment, it looked as if Gawain was going to ask something else, his jaws already opening, but then he slowly closed them, a look of unease creeping into his eyes.

“... Gods. You are—alright. Alright, yes, just let me… Fetch my fangs.”

_(one tragic rabbit demise later)_

“Hmpf—ugh, let me get the hairs off my tongue, it’s disgusting…” Gawain dropped the limp rabbit on the ground and licked at the patch of ice, his ears flattened against his head. At the soft, strained sound, he startled, looking up fast. “Lancelot? Why are you crying?”

Lancelot startled, his shoulders tensing. It still felt strange to hear his name uttered so gently, with no intention to make him obey. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“It’s just my face.”

“Very funny. What’s wrong? Is the—is the rabbit wrong?” Gawain paused, staring at his catch with wide, wary eyes. “Do you have some religious reservations about rabbits I am not aware of? Wait—are you sad I killed it? Was it a metaphor or something?”

“No,” Lancelot, who had just three days ago learnt what a metaphor was, forced out, roughly wiping the tears away with the back of his hand and picking the tiny carcass up. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what? Come on, tell me,” Gawain implored, sitting next to him with an earnest, worried look shining in his keen green eyes.

“I… didn’t think you’d do me a favour. Do I—owe you for it?” Lancelot whispered, not taking his stinging eyes off the white snow glowing between the firs surrounding the sun-thawed glade they had chosen for today.

“Tempting as it is to have you at my mercy—no, you don’t,” the fox declared firmly, and tilted his head when Lancelot let out a small relieved breath. “I mean, speaking about favours, I wouldn’t siege the king’s castle for you, but this is just a rabbit. It is a small thing.”

Lancelot nodded jerkily, sniffling and taking a shaky inhale. “Sure.”

Whiskers twitching in that funny way he had when he was thinking, Gawain glanced at the carcass still clutched in his hand. “Literally, it is.”

“Piss off,” Lancelot muttered with a watery laugh, shoving at the warm, small shoulder. Pushing to stand, he glanced back at the fox peering up at him from the ground, and returned his wry grin.

~

Huffing in frustration, his eyes narrowed, Gawain pawed at the book — its cover already quite tattered. It was not a proper way to treat something so precious and rare, but Lancelot just shot a brief glance at the black leather thwarted under a tiny paw and went back to looking at the forest.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fox rage, his tail twitching irritation as he first circled around the book and then stopped in front of the fallen log to scratch at it, all the while talking:

“Damn it, how I need a thumb! When I turn back, at least I can… What? Is the scratching annoying? Sorry. I won’t stop, though.”

“Turn back into what?” Lancelot clarified, feeling quite alarmed as he shifted on the log, tiny clumps of snow hailing on the ground.

“My—uh, I guess you can call it my human shape. It has two legs, and all.”

The forest tilted, shattered into a mosaic of dappled sunlight and patchy snow, pieces raining down and swapping places as Lancelot struggled to comprehend. 

“Can all of you do that..?” he asked, suddenly uneasy. It had been easy to forget the fox was more than a friendly talking animal straight from a fairytale, there to help him find the way out of the dark woods — the ones of his own ignorance, in Lancelot’s case.

“No,” Gawain scraped at the log with his paw, leaped on top of it, then back down, landing with effortless grace. “But I can.”

Lancelot swallowed thickly, and did not say a word.

“You won’t ask why I haven’t done it yet?”

Closing his eyes, he shook his head jerkily. Running away from danger was easier on four paws. And that what he was—a danger. A lost, useless danger, a ghost rattling its chains as it kept going in circles. An echo and an empty shell that had edges sharp enough to cut when colliding with something still living. It was surprising as it was that the fox kept coming back; he could hardly ask for more.

The scratching stopped. His heart did, too, or so it felt.

“I was wrong about you,” the fox said suddenly, giving him a brief glance and looking away again. “You’re a good man, Lancelot.”

“How can you,” Lancelot choked on the words, drew a measured, slow breath in, and finished: “you, of all people, call me that?”

“Well, who would know better than the one who saw you at your worst?” Gawain gave a small shrug. “Besides. Forgiveness, after all.”

“You forgive me?” Lancelot clarified, his voice climbing high with disbelief.

Ears twitching and small blacks streaks of his brows drawn together, Gawain stared intently at the log, resting his paw against the dark bark.

“I am trying,” he said finally, and started scratching again.

~

When Lancelot was leaving the clearing, some time after the fox trailed he glanced briefly at the log. His eyes lingered on the runes, making out the familiar outlines. West, it said.

When he came back to the camp, the Abbot met him, and inquired about the directions for the next scouting party. Lancelot glanced at him, then at the golden masks, staring at him with the heavy, expectant air. Their gold dimmed, the paint not holding up against constant washing off blood and soot smearing the noble metal.

Lancelot looked back to the Abbot, holding his gaze steadily. North, he said.

The man paused, gave him a single nod, and walked off, the thundercloud of his silent guarding dogs trailing after him.

~

Two weeks passed like that. Lancelot was becoming increasingly inventive with his lies, finally putting the old habits to good use as he found one explanation after another for his failures in discovering fey hideouts. His loneliness paid off for once — no one could catch him on a lie when it came to tracking fey. No one could guess that the signs woven out of the bare branches were made by his hands, much less read them—the Abbot tried to learn how he did it, but Lancelot gave such elusive, short replies, that the man was forced to retreat, stalking off with a look of silent rage draining colour out if his already sickly pale face.

It went like this:

“What does this sign tell?”

“The directions.”

“Where?”

“To the hideout.”

“How do you know?”

“The shape.”

“What about it?”

“It is a circle.”

“I can see that,” Wicklow narrowed his eyes.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lancelot replied mildly.

The man was silent for a long moment, working his jaw, before letting out a slow, controlled breath, and stalking off. Lancelot glanced at him briefly, before moving his gaze back to the sign. 

He would not have been so bold as to aggravate the man, but the tension between Red Brothers and the Vatican guards was rising steadily with every day of being trapped in a winter forest without any external enemy on which to take out their aggression. When Lancelot thought about the way Carden and Wicklow more and more often seemed mere inches away from lunging at each other, the laughter in his mind sounded suspiciously like Gawain.

It was, without doubt, a dangerous game they played, but Lancelot was willing to take a risk for the precious stolen hours of freedom he shared with the chatty fox. Some of them were full of sunlight as they lingered in the faraway clearings, soaking the warmth and talking, the bible forgotten on the ground between them. Some of them they spent under the sprawling branches of a fir tree, huddled close to each other in front of a tiny lick of a fire as they waited out a snowstorm. Lancelot would be rubbing his numb hands together until Gawain stopped puffing like a bellows next to him and crawled into his lap, forcing Lancelot to warm up his fingers by carding them through the thick red fur. 

During one of those days, Lancelot fell asleep. When he woke up, blinking groggily at the dying fire, he could not at first understand why he felt so warm—until he felt the fox shift next to him, opening his eyes as well. They looked at each other in silence for a while, Lancelot barely daring to breathe, and Gawain staring at him with an unreadable expression in his dark green eyes, gleaming with the reflections of the snow falling outside their hideout. 

Then Gawain opened his mouth and informed Lancelot that he snored.

Lancelot was not proud of how much it made him blush and swear, but then he really felt as if it was an inappropriate reaction to the tender, solemn moment they shared. He did not want to explore why it felt tender in the first place, but his thoughts just kept circling back to it, the memory of the heavy green gaze keeping him awake at night, long after he was back to the camp.

Still, for all the warmth shared in place of fraught silences from before, it was dangerous. Once, they barely escaped being detected by the patrol of Trinity Guards, prowling the woods, ice crumbling and creaking under their heavy boots as they made their way through the underbrush. Silent as shadows, Lancelot and Gawain hid behind the trees on the opposite sides of the clearing, exchanging quick glances as they waited for the patrol to go away.

Now, it was Lancelot leading the scouting mission. As for the past week, he led them firmly away from the narrow path leading west, the one marked with real fey signs. He had discovered it a couple of days ago, stood there alone and in silence, watching it disappear into the frozen woods. Then he had turned around and marched back to the camp. He wanted to tell Gawain to hide it better, but the cross still burned at his throat like a noose, and during their next meeting, he kept silent.

The sun gleamed off something in the overgrown dark space under the fallen log, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Pushing the sharp bramblebush branches out of his face, Lancelot stepped closer and crouched on the ground next to it, a familiar faint scent drifting to his nose before he even saw what it was. There, on the dark wet ground, covered with dried leaves, laid what could only be Gawain’s stash.

It was just a small bundle of things, really. A green tunic with a slightly torn lacing at the throat, made of cheap, well-worn linen, a pair of soft leather boots next to it — both smaller than Lancelot expected from the fey’s voice — and, on top of the woolen breeches, a knife with a carved handle. The sun was glinting off its razor-sharp, well-honed blade.

Lancelot studied it in silence, then reached out, tracing the sharp edge with the pad of his index finger. It drew blood—he sucked the air sharply and slowly pulled his hand away, clenching his fist to catch the quickly swelling red droplets. Glancing up at the paladins, who were wading through the deep snow a bit further away with their blades unsheathed, he lowered his gaze again.

Brushing the fallen leaves over the blade, he pushed to stand and returned to the path, not looking back and not uttering a word.

~

“How young were you?”

Lancelot paused, a finger running down the line coming to a stop. It only took him a moment to understand what Gawain meant, but he found he needed time to decide whether he was ready to surrender the answer. 

Surrender might have been the wrong word. Deep down, Lancelot knew one thing — Gawain was not cruel. He was not even a warrior, but a healer, as it turned out; an apprentice, at least. Of course, he was also an instigator, a tempter—a friend, his mind supplied.

The runes on the parchment waited in silence, as did the fox at his side. His black pointy ears stood upright, the gentle wind ruffling the thick fur. Judging from the small twitch of his tail, the white tip flicking left and right, he was slightly worried, as if that question might have broken the budding truce, crossing some invisible border.

Lancelot sighed softly, looking down at the page again, as he wondered where that border even laid now. Gawain had already made him cross so many lines; it was a miracle no punishment had yet befallen them. Though it was, he had to admit, exhilarating to discover that he could fool an entire camp of paladins _twice._

Today was another riot, this one in the form of a frail parchment Gawain had brought clutched gently between sharp teeth, bound by a twine. A fey fairytale about dragons seemed innocent enough to try, Lancelot decided. When he’d asked why it was written in Latin, Gawain had shrugged and said he translated and copied it for him. 

Lancelot had had to take a moment to pace around, biting at his knuckle to stifle his sighs, but had ultimately calmed down enough to sit down and actually read it. 

Now, his heart was writhing like a wounded beast again, all loud thumps and soft wheezes. This, of all moments, felt like reaching the point of no return. Coming close to the ridge of the mountain pass, unsure of what will wait for you on the other side, and Lancelot was terrified of taking that last step. Because if he said this—if he said this—

“Five..? I think. I don’t remember.”

—Gawain would know just how broken he was.

~

His vulnerability was not attacked, which did not stop his body from inflicting violence on itself. Gawain patted him awkwardly on the forearm, and Lancelot replied with a miserable strained sound that in no way could pass for a human speech. Swallowing the bitter bile, he tried again.

“Go—go away,” he forced out, chest heaving for air as he curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his aching stomach, his knees folded under him. He had merely been telling about his childhood at the abbey, at Gawain’s gently curious inquiries. Somehow it turned into him recalling the story about the snake boy and the lance, and then he couldn’t shut up, words pouring out of his mouth until bile took their place, and he had to lurch to the side.

“No.”

Closing his eyes, Lancelot let out another short gurgle of protest and dry-heaved again, clutching at his cramping stomach, tears coming to his eyes as he whimpered softly. Immediately, Gawain pressed closer, a tiny, warm body vibrating against Lancelot, the fox’s sides puffing like a bellows. 

“I—I am sorry you have to see me…” Lancelot whispered, his forehead and cheeks on fire from exhaustion and feverish shame that looped around his neck like a noose and brought tears of helpless anger to his eyes. It took all in him not to give in, not to let them fall.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Gawain cut him off, firmly but not unkindly, and resolutely put a paw on his shoulder, tiny shards of ice clinging to black fur around the claws. “I am here because I choose to be.”

Sniffling, Lancelot curled in on himself again, pushing a bit into the awkward embrace the fox held him in.

~

“You’re good there?”

Lancelot hummed a yes.

“Sure that you want to continue? Not too difficult to read?”

Lancelot hummed a no.

“Lancelot, are you embarrassed that you were sick?”

Shaking his head, Lancelot hummed a very resolute no. 

Gawain narrowed his eyes, getting to his feet. “Sweet bosom of Danu, you are. Alright, wait—I will fix it—”

“Please don’t,” Lancelot blurted, reaching out to catch the fox by the longer fur on his scruff, unsure of what Gawain planned, but certain it was something that would only embarrass him more.

Stubborn as always, Gawain huffed, shaking his hand off, then nosed at it as if apologising and ran off. The tip of his tail flicked left and right, as he darted between the low-hanging shrubs. Stopping at the edge of the field that lay just a dozen steps away from where Lancelot leaned against the hollowed-out trunk of a willow tree, Gawain perked up his ears.

“Look!” He urged in a whispering shout, a toothy grin stretching his mouth. “Bet you there are some nice fat mice there. Now, Lancelot, be quiet. I am going to embarrass myself, and I take such things very seriously.”

Realising what he was going to do, Lancelot fell back with a low groan, pressing his hand to his face.

“Don’t,” he mumbled. “Gawain, seeing you swallow a mouse won’t help—”

“Can’t hear you!” Gawain called out cheerfully, then cocked his head to the left, to the right, and leapt into the air, diving headfirst into the snow.

~

A helpless, a bit breathless laughter rang among the sun-lit pine trees, echoing between the slender trunks and the rocky slopes of the hills, scattering over the glowing patches of thawing snow.

“Wait! Gawain, wait, I—” 

The red shadow that Lancelot had been chasing stopped immediately, looking back at him. His tail was strung into a taut line parallel to the ground, ears standing up in alert, and in his jaws, the small black book was clutched carefully.

Bending over to plant his hands on his knees, Lancelot grinned, catching his breath, then snickered again. “What are you doing? I know you are luring me away, but why? What, are you going to enchant me, at last?”

He vaguely recalled the appropriate cautionary tale but judging from the way Gawain tilted his head, a slightly befuddled expression written clearly on his expressive muzzle, the Albion fey were not familiar with that one. However, the fox recovered fast, his nose twitching curiously. 

“Is that something that you want?”

Lancelot frowned. “What? No!”

“Sure sounded like you do. Want me to turn into a fair maiden, use my wiles, perhaps?” the fox grinned, wiggling his eyebrows as he cocked his head. 

“What—stop that. I didn’t say anything of the sorts.” 

The green eyes narrowed sceptically. How he even managed to be so expressive was beyond Lancelot, but it seemed that when it came to Gawain making a fool out of someone, the reality was willing to bend its laws a bit.

“No, you just blushed so much I wonder how you did not catch fire yet,” the fox smirked. “Also, uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but I am a man. So, if you are into maidens, bad luck, mate.”

“I did notice,” Lancelot muttered, interrupting his rumbling. “For once, you have a male voice, it is bea—difficult to ignore, you know.”

It was like slipping on a patch of ice, watching the ground approach in slow-motion and unable to do anything about it. Breath stuck in his throat, for a moment longer, Lancelot clung to the hope that his slip-up would go unnoticed. However, that little hope shrivelled and died when Gawain blinked, then stood up, coming closer to him in a slow prowl of a predator approaching his prey. 

Watching him advance, Lancelot reminded himself nervously that he was significantly taller than the fox, not to mention he had real weapons at hand instead of claws. Gawain was unlikely to hurt him—though Lancelot doubted the same could be said for his feelings, should they be discovered. Swallowing thickly, he schooled his face into his best impassive expression, the one he used when faced with nosy abbots. 

It was a decent one and it gave Gawain a slight pause, forcing him to freeze with his paw mid-air. However, no matter his efforts to contain his blasted nature, Lancelot could feel the heat creeping on his cheeks. It was always something with him, either green or red, threatening to give him away, he thought in frustration. 

His nostrils flaring treacherously, he stared down at Gawain without uttering a word. The silence grew as Gawain stared right back. Then his ear twitched, once, twice, and he wiggled his whiskers.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “Are you blushing even more? Because of my—voice?” 

Lancelot glared at the fox—him, after all, _truly_ him?—half-heartedly. The sun caught on the fangs when Gawain bared them in another smile, only that one did not reach his eyes, still locked on Lancelot, burning right through him.

“My voice is just my own, by the way, no magic there. Well, no more than—Lancelot. Lancelot, are you… Do you _want_ me to turn..? Are you just curious or...”

Averting his eyes, Lancelot dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. It was strange to have the hood down, gentle chilly breeze touching the loosened curls and the sun warming the back of his head. He had started doing it more and more after Gawain dragged the hood down with his teeth one too many times during their roughhousing, but perhaps he should not have. Perhaps he should pull it back on and never open his mouth again because now that he had done that, Gawain was still looking at him expectantly; as if there was a sensible way for Lancelot to react.

“Stop taunting me,” he ordered sharply, turning on his heel in an attempt to physically put an end to their conversation. However, he did not account for a worried, gentle voice still reaching his ears.

“Taunting..? I am not taunting.”

Gawain sounded so genuinely taken aback, but that only flared up the annoyance Lancelot felt. He refused to turn around, panicked thoughts racing through his head. They were still enemies, he was still a danger, what was Gawain thinking, offering his vulnerabilities up like that, Lancelot could surely find a way to harm him while he was turning, if he wanted to...

“What else can it be but a taunt?” he frowned and crossed his arms, trying to cage his racing heart. 

“A sincere question?” Gawain replied, sitting back on his haunches. “I wouldn’t want to presume, but in retrospective, it seems pretty obvious that you’re pining. Can’t believe I misread your mooning as murderous glaring—are you doing it now, too? What is this? Come on, I can’t tell.” 

Gritting his teeth, Lancelot took a deep breath. Right now, he was definitely entertaining the idea of strangling the tiny insolent bastard. Sweat stood out on his back, but to take off his cloak would have been akin to another surrender, even though he was sweating after all the running they did.

“I am not,” he gritted out, refusing to meet his eyes and instead looking between his ears, “pining after a fox.”

“Ah, but I am not just a fox, am I?” Gawain leered, his hackles raised, and fixed Lancelot with a heavy, unblinking stare before shaking his head and leaping back to his feet, a share of his cheerful demeanour returning. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

“Don’t,” Lancelot muttered, waving him away half-heartedly, as he leaned against the tree trunk, powdery snow falling from the disturbed branches to land on his shoulder. He glanced at it, brushing it off the dark heavy linen, and added under his breath: “It is not—safe for you—I can still kill you.”

It sounded weak even to his own ears. Sure enough, Gawain just grinned at him and trotted to the centre of the clearing with his tail standing upright, swaying slightly with each light swift step. Squinting at the sun that stood in the zenith above their heads, the fox shook his fur, a halo of glowing droplets exploding around him.

“Alright, now be quiet, please, I need my wits,” he announced with a solemn air.

“I always am, and you don’t have any,” Lancelot replied mildly, shifting to get more comfortable, his arms still crossed but shoulders sagging as he studied Gawain—who was now turning around in slow circles, long wet fur brushing against the snow. 

He appeared so unfazed after the much-feared revelation as if it was something small, a dry leaf he could easily brush off from his slick red coat. It was outright humiliating to be the only one left flustered and in pieces. Frowning, Lancelot sniffled angrily and glanced down, digging the toe of his shoe into the patch of dirty snow.

“Are you just being dramatic?” he inquired tersely when the fox kept turning counter-clockwise.

“A bit,” Gawain admitted in a calm voice, a sombre tone that made Lancelot look up. “Though you don’t have a leg to stand on in that regard. Anyway, it helps to have some sun.”

“Helps with what?”

“Magic, of course. What, didn’t you believe me?”

Inhaling sharply, Lancelot leaned forward. He was so sure that the fey would not follow through with his teasing—but Gawain sounded unusually serious, and now that Lancelot looked closer, it seemed as every mundane detail was revealed in a different light. 

The sun glinted brightly off the ice crust, the entire clearing glowing golden, and the little fox stood right under the flood of blinding rays streaming from the sky. He seemed to be done making a dent in the snow and now stood still with his nose pointed straight up.

Suddenly, he shook himself off, and then again, faster, this time. It looked as if he was speeding up, the air warping around him, shimmering as if it became water, reflecting the light until Lancelot had to squint and raise a hand to shield his eyes. He could no longer see Gawain clearly, just a vague shadow that almost disappeared in blinding white light.

Despite the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, Lancelot did not look away—but he had to blink rapidly when the light began to dim, leaving him with blue shadows colouring the world in bright spots. When he looked up again, he saw that a young man _—Gawain,_ that was Gawain—was slowly standing up, unfurling from his crouched position in the snow.

Breath stolen from his lungs, Lancelot just stared, forgetting all about weak points in his awe at seeing another secret he was trusted with. He could make out the mop of ginger locks now, soft strands shining gold in the sunlight, the delicate knobs of Gawain’s spine, lined with a thin line of red hair that trailed down to a very firm, pleasantly rounded…

The sight making his mouth go dry, Lancelot snapped his eyes up—just in time, as Gawain seemed to have recovered his bearings, turning around to give him a wry, wary grin. Meeting his eyes—the same bright, verdant green he had before—Lancelot froze, his heart beating wildly, confused and overwhelmed by how young Gawain was, just about his age—and how beautiful. He was lithe, nimble and pale like a young birch tree...

… and stark naked. For some reason, Lancelot just assumed clothes took longer to materialise, but no, no, they did not.

Whipping his head to the side, he reddened, then took a quick glance again, averted his eyes, and began to unfasten his cloak. By the time Gawain approached him, seemingly unbothered by walking barefoot in the snow, Lancelot had his eyes firmly fixed on the spot on the ground that both allowed him to see a possible attack and not see anything else, the cloak gripped tightly in his outstretched hand. 

Gawain stopped just a step away from him and tilted his head, studying the heavy dark fabric streaming from his fingers.

“What’s that for?” He wondered, a faint frown creasing his brow. 

“Don’t you know..?” Lancelot spluttered, glancing up, but caught a glimmer of amusement in the sly green eyes and clenched his jaw, averting his eyes again. “You must be cold.”

“And you surely are not,” Gawain grinned, then shrugged and reached out to take the cloak. “Alright. If it makes you feel safer.”

At these words, Lancelot’s mind went blank. He could no longer see up from down because none of that made sense. Not the trust, not the jokes, not the beauty. He kept looking, in silence, at Gawain, who threw the cloak over his shoulders, not bothering to even tug it properly around his frame. 

Ignoring the bait, Lancelot kept his gaze trained firmly on his face, which was one of the most physically challenging things he had ever done. When Gawain, now relatively covered, looked to the side, a small smile still curling his lips, Lancelot finally stopped trying to just not look down and actually looked in front of him. 

“You still have,” he coughed, gesturing at the fey’s ears. “Is it—permanent?”

“What?” Gawain frowned, then swore, patting frantically at the fox ears still peeking through his ginger locks. “Ah, fuck, I always forget about these! I can’t see them, so… Wait a moment… And now?”

“Now is alright,” Lancelot replied quietly.

His ears now perfectly human pink shells, Gawain beamed, before frowning again. Twisting around, he craned his neck, trying to see behind his back:

“Wait, I don’t have a tail, right? It happened once or twice…" he murmured, wiggling his hips a bit. “I can’t feel it, but…”

Shaking his head, Lancelot swallowed dryly as he tried really hard not to gawk. He succeeded somewhat, but his eyes still followed the trail of soft red hair running up Gawain’s back. He did not say anything about it.

“Is that who you really are?” Lancelot asked quietly, and Gawain looked up at him from under the long, red eyelashes, hesitating with a reply. 

Turning around to face him, he finally drew the edges of the cloak together, hiding his nakedness. “It is also me, yes. Both are. Same soul, different hides. Like you.”

With a small confused sound, Lancelot reached for his sword out of habit, seeking something steady and familiar in this whirlwind of feelings. He grabbed the cold steel tightly, taking a deep breath, and only when Gawain’s eyes followed his movement did he remember himself and dropped his hand as if burnt.

“I am—I am not going to hurt you,” he hurried to say.

“I know,” Gawain replied, his voice strangely calm and lilting in the face of Lancelot’s stuttering. “You have proved that. I believe we finally see each other for how we are, stripped of our disguises.”

Blushing fiercely, Lancelot lowered his gaze and clenched his teeth tight. 

“I can still—,” he exhaled heavily, closing his eyes. “You’re reckless. This could have been a trap, what if I am trying to fool you—”

“Lancelot.”

A gentle hand caught his chin, making him look up — well, still down, because he was taller than Gawain by several inches. It was just a small thing on top of the pile of confusing emotions that kept mounting in his head.

“I think the only person you are fooling is yourself,” the fey murmured carefully, his fingers lingering feather-light over the short stubble on Lancelot’s chin before he let go. “You are not a torturer. Or a hound.”

Narrowing his eyes briefly, Lancelot looked down again, hand finding the hilt against his will. The steel burned, cold and demanding under his palm. It spoke to him in his Father’s voice, biting out harsh orders to strike Gawain down, to incapacitate him, capture him and drag him to the camp—

“If you were, you would have laid a snare under snow or set up an ambush near my hideout. You could have used poison, arrows, could have set dogs on me. Instead, even before you knew I came in peace, you faced me with only your sword to protect you, even though you shook like a leaf. You are just a warrior on the other side, not a monster.”

The warm voice, even though it was so low, eclipsed the hateful whispers tainting the borders of his mind. Clenching his fingers on a pommel in the last desperate spasm, Lancelot let out a strained, shaky breath and nodded.

“Thank you for the ideas,” he murmured, then swallowed thickly. “I will remember them next time you drive me insane with your chatter.”

Grinning sharply, Gawain smoothed a hand down Lancelot’s shoulder and squeezed it briefly. 

“I believe we can find far more interesting things to do. Stop blushing, gods, I meant that I can finally use my hands—you know what, I will just tease you until you combust. Will it count as a fair win?”

“Go to hell,” Lancelot murmured, turning around to storm off, but Gawain just shrugged.

“I can’t. We don’t believe in it.”

Shaking his head, Lancelot nodded at Gawain’s bare pale feet, toes turning red.

“Do you not believe in cold, either?”

“Not when it is inconvenient,” Gawain grinned, then shivered. “But it takes concentration which I’d rather use on other things. Come, my stash is not far.” 

~

“How come they let you out for so long?” Gawain wondered, tying off the laces on his shoes and raising from his knees.

“I lie.” Lancelot coughed. “I lie that I look for your hideout.”

Gawain paused, fingers wrapped around a silver shamrock brooch he was fixing at his throat, then inhaled shakily. “Alright. I — thank you. Just — thank you.”

As if trying to get Lancelot to stop looking around like paladins could appear any moment from behind a tree, Gawain continued to talk non-stop as they made their way further up the slope of the mountain, away from the camp. Mostly, he talked about other fey, silly little anecdotes, like how he had bitten a young witch for closing the door on his tail. Or how Squirrel had fallen into the lake while he’d been trying to lure out a mermaid who stole a carp right off his fishing rod. 

Actually, a lot of stories were about Squirrel. The boy sounded like a spitfire.

When Lancelot carefully inquired whether he was Gawain’s kin, the man scratched his nose and shrugged. “Not by blood.”

“But—,” Lancelot faltered, choosing the words, “—did you take him in as your son?”

“Well, I am too young to call him a son,” Gawain chuckled, leaping from one stone to another, balancing for a moment on his toes before jumping down. “I am just twenty—so, ten years older. It’s rather that we are like brothers.”

Falling silent, Lancelot followed him deeper into the woods, ice and dry leaves crunching under his feet as he walked, deep in thought. Gawain babbled merrily in the background, only stopping his chattering to swallow the rowanberries he kept plucking off the low-hanging branches.

Brothers, Lancelot repeated to himself, the familiar word tasting different. He never had one, only cousins — little Ector who had clutched the iron bars with tiny, bloodied hands; and sulky Lionel who had bared his teeth at the friars when they’d rattled the cage, trying to see whether the fey would go green from fear alone. He could barely remember anything about the dead boys except for their names, the blue eyes and the dirty blond locks.

Sighing, Lancelot tore himself out of the dark whirlpool of his memories, refocusing on the smooth, silvery voice of Gawain that flowed like honey and wove with the sunlight shining between the pine trees, as he recalled another story.

“... So, Nimue charmed up some kind of a flower, trying to distract that man-blood boy, but turned out he had the _worst_ allergies to those… For all that she was forced to murder people, she was so embarrassed because of ruining the gift for a child, you should have seen her face...”

“Why did she need to distract him?”

“I was treating his wound,” Gawain shrugged. “And he was scared; I would have told him a story, but I had to focus, so she came to aid.”

“Can all of you grow things?”

“No, only some. But… we love this land, and it loves us, too. We do not demand it to surrender its fruits with fire and iron, but ask for them. That’s why it is more generous with us than with man-bloods. We tried to tell them, but they refused to listen and then blamed the draught on us—as if it didn’t hit us just the same.”

All these stories made Lancelot’s head spin, as he rapidly realised the simple fact that innocent fey children grew up to be peaceful fey adults, if given a chance, and were unlikely to suddenly lose their soul somewhere in between. 

It was not the revelation—rather, something he had refused to look directly at that now came into light, screaming for his attention and unwilling to ever again be hidden and locked away. In retrospect, given his own story, he should have really seen through the lies Father spun much sooner.

Gawain was kind enough not to remark on that out loud, though from the expression on his face when he saw Lancelot pale, swearing under his breath as he pressed the hands to his face, the fey guessed the reason. 

Pausing with his hand at another branch bending under the weight of berries, Gawain gave him a lingering glance. “You alright?” 

“No,” Lancelot forced out, not taking his hands off his face.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want me to shut up?”

“Yes—no. No. Tell me...” Lancelot swallowed hard. “Tell me more.”

For a moment longer, Gawain studied him but then gave a small nod, popped a bright berry in his mouth, and continued the convoluted hunting story that Lancelot thought was too bizarre to be true, but wanted to know the ending for anyway. As they walked, Gawain remained silent on the matter of the feelings his stories provoked; knowing him, he was just saving it for a more dramatic moment.

However, it might have been compassion, too, because nor did he prod Lancelot for any details about the paladins’ camp, and neither did he seem to expect him to lie if they were to meet with the Trinity Guards. 

Guilt tugging at his stomach, Lancelot felt ridiculously grateful for the reprieve from risking his hide. He shushed the insistent whispers in his head that told him that he would do that, anyway, shoved them in the dark closet far in the back of his mind, and followed Gawain out into the small clearing near the bubbling mountain creek. 

Exchanging quick looks, they wordlessly agreed to settle next to it. The sun reflected off the shallow fast water that flew over the smooth rocks in a wide ribbon of dazzling molten gold, spraying in the air and draping in shimmering veils over the steep rock ledges.

They ended up reading, again, after Gawain promised to get fey scouts to leave a fake trail for Lancelot to follow. The familiar routine settled Lancelot’s raised hackles a bit, allowing his shallow breathing to find depth as they sat side by side on a fallen log, early afternoon sun warming their backs. The words were a blur, though, as his thoughts kept turning to the warmth that was radiating from the young man next to him. It seemed the fox fey carried a piece of sun in him, as well — by the way...

“How do they call you?” Lancelot wondered softly, abandoning the pretence of reading after making it through barely a dozen pages. “There are fauns and moonwings, but who are you?”

Spitting out the dry grass stem he was chewing, Gawain tossed his head back, squinting at the sun and sniffing the air. “I am a llwynog.”

“Does it mean anything?” 

“A fox.”

Lancelot couldn’t help a snort. “Of course.”

Gawain shrugged with one shoulder, bouncing his knee up and down as he leaned back against the log, popping a rowanberry in his mouth from the handful he held. “Back when the tribes met, there was no need to call the things more than what they were—unless the names gave true power over you.”

Keeping his face carefully blank, Lancelot gave a small nod, pretending to continue his reading. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gawain frown, and bit his lip, and it made him inhale sharply—the truth begged to be let out of his throat; but a sudden burst of wind fluttered the pages, tearing them out of his fingers.

The clouds cut off the sunlight so abruptly, accompanied by another gust of icy wind, that he startled with his entire body. Looking up, he squinted in confusion at the darkening sky. The air was mellow and warm just a moment ago, while now he had to squint against a gale bringing the scent of frost.

Holding his hood with one hand, Lancelot hurried to close the book, pushing it in his bag. “What—why is the weather worsening?”

Features still drawn in a thoughtful frown, Gawain looked up from his tightly clasped hands, fingers stained with crimson berry juice, and twitched his nose much the same way he did when he was a fox. He threw a lingering look at the heavy clouds, then squinted at the forest, popping the last berry in his mouth. 

“Nimue is doing something again,” he muttered, his eyes flitting between the trees. Lancelot turned to look that away as well but saw nothing except for the tall pine trees, their slender trunks creaking under the onslaught of wind.

When the words finally sank in, Lancelot glanced back, panic rising in his chest. 

“Nimue is the Wolf-Blood Witch..?” 

Huffing defensively, Gawain scrambled to stand up, his voice still low and calm as he gathered his short cloak up and threw it over his shoulders, clasping the shamrock at the throat. “You say it as if she was born of the wolves.”

“Wait—but you know her well?” Lancelot hurried to clarify, raising as well.

His face darkening, Gawain shrugged, glancing away. “We talked once or twice, but we are hardly friends. I am nowhere near her status—I am just nosy.”

That Lancelot already knew, but something shifting behind the green eyes told him that Gawain was, at the very best, bending the truth. However, before he could ask anything else, another gust of wind stole his words away, rustling the branches and making both him and Gawain squint and step back. 

"Alright, Lancelot," Gawain muttered, his eyes two narrow slits of dark green. "I don’t say it often but… Run!"

The wind howled with vicious glee, latching at their cloaks like a hungry dog, nipping at their heels as they ran, trying to reach the foot of the mountain before the hurricane caught up with them. For the second time in so many days, Lancelot found himself chasing the fey, only this time they ran almost side by side, as the wind raged behind them, roaring like a wounded beast. 

However fast they were, the narrow rocky path and treacherous patches of ice hindered them, and the storm was gathering far quicker than the normal one would have. In just a handful of minutes, the entire sky was covered with dark clouds, and the snow started to fall, faster and faster, until it swirled around them, roaring white that Lancelot could not see in further than two steps.

“We won’t make it!” Gawain shouted to him before gesturing wildly at the pine tree, its sprawling branches quickly being buried under the flakes of white piling higher. “Hide!”

Lancelot obeyed without a thought, diving under the branches right after Gawain. They slapped him in the face and scraped at his cloak, catching at the fabric, a strong pleasant scent of pine hitting his nose; then he stumbled to the ground, which was covered with yet more of tiny green needles, clinging to his palms immediately.

The wind tried to creep in after them, howling and throwing snow by the handfuls, but the thick cover of the fir boughs hid them from the worst of it. Still, on the edges, the chill was biting, and Lancelot shifted, trying to press closer to the trunk—just when Gawain did, too.

“I do not want to spook you,” Gawain said slowly, and Lancelot’s heart fell as he imagined what exactly the magical storm might have entailed. “But it might be easier to keep warm if we are close to each other. If you are alright with it, if you can—take it.”

“Of course I can take it,” Lancelot replied automatically, relieved at the idea that the consequences of being snowed in were limited to some awkward huddling together. He was relieved for all the five seconds it took for Gawain to nod and settle against his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him closer.

His brain skidded to a halt, an utter silence falling both in his head and under the tree, only the whistle of the wind and the sound of snow falling to fill it. His heavy breathing, also, small panicked breaths as the blood rushed in his ears, his fingers and lips suddenly prickling.

Sniffling, Gawain pressed closer, stealing the air from his lungs and the words from his mouth. Breathless, speechless, Lancelot looked at him as Gawain glanced up, a sly green gaze through the red eyelashes. 

"Sorry," he said quietly, not sounding particularly sorry, and averted his eyes. "It’s too cold otherwise."

Swallowing thickly, Lancelot gave the smallest nod, his breath hitching. 

"Yes," he whispered. “It is.”

It was a meaningless reply, but Gawain just hummed softly. For a long moment, they sat in fraught silence, Lancelot afraid of even breathing and Gawain seemingly deep in thought. 

His eyes kept finding that trail of red he could still see peek from behind the collar of Gawain’s shirt, running down the bowed neck. It looked — beautiful, soft to the touch, almost… inviting. Tearing his gaze away from the delicate line of the fey’s neck, Lancelot threw his head back, hitting it against the trunk.

At the dull thump, Gawain looked up. “Are you alright?”

“Uhu,” he forced out, counting the pine needles above him and losing count after three, hopelessly distracted by the warm weight of Gawain’s arm around his midriff.

“No, but I think you might have just knocked the last of your brain out,” Gawain murmured. “Let me see..”

“It’s nothing,” Lancelot said, which was far from the most eloquent response, but he was proud he managed to make it sound like he did not particularly care. It all was in vain, though, because Gawain shifted, twisting around, and reached up to touch him.

His fingers brushed over the back of Lancelot’s head, and Lancelot closed his eyes, mortified by the enthusiastic reaction his body had. Thankfully, the heavy folds of dark linen allowed him to preserve his dignity—but after ensuring no lasting damage was done, Gawain did not break off the contact. Instead, he rubbed small soothing circles into the smarting scalp, and Lancelot shivered at the gentle caress.

“That cold?” Gawain inquired airily.

“No,” he forced out. “Just—”

Realising what he almost said, Lancelot tensed and turned his head away, evading the tender touch. He did not, however, pull away completely, unwilling to trade Gawain’s body heat for the chilling bite of the wind. When he craned his neck to steal a glance from under the branches, the snow outside was still falling, a whirlwind of white surrounding their hideout.

He sighed, shifting his gaze away from the snow, and turned back to Gawain, ready to say that they—

—Gawain was looking at him with slightly unfocused eyes, gaze fixed low enough that even Lancelot immediately realised what he was looking at. 

For a moment, they remained frozen, all the words stuck in Lancelot’s throat. He studied in helpless, terrified awe the glimmering, verdant green of Gawain’s eyes, the delicate purple tint of his eyelids, the scatter of faint freckles and scars over his pale skin; it looked warm and so soft...

When he leaned in, pressing his lips to the smooth forehead, it felt even better than it looked, and he closed his eyes, trying to commit every single detail of this feeling to his memory.

“Hey,” Gawain said, suddenly, and Lancelot startled, letting out a shaky chuckle and drawing away.

“Hey,” he replied, a blush crawling on his cheeks. An apology was on the tip of his tongue, but when he flitted his eyes to look at Gawain, there was not a hint of mockery to be seen — just barely restrained glee tinged with expectant excitement that gave Lancelot courage to press another kiss, a bolder one, at the corner of a winged red brow. 

"My mouth is lower," Gawain noticed, barely audible. He did not move an inch, though, just allowing Lancelot to stay, lips pressed to his brow, before moving on in his exploration. 

"I know," Lancelot murmured, pressing another soft kiss, this time to Gawain’s temple, the ginger locks tickling his nose. 

"I know," he repeated, kissing Gawain’s cheek and brushing his nose against it. A small grin tugged at his mouth when Gawain inhaled sharply and tilted his head, changing the angle, a wordless invitation that did not stay wordless long.

"Kiss me," Gawain urged softly, his eyes hooded and dark, the deep shifting green shadowed by the long, curving russet eyelashes.

With his heart fluttering in his throat, Lancelot leaned in, hand coming to rest over the smooth freckled cheek in a feather-light caress. Unsure of what to do, he pressed their mouths together chastely, but the warm, soft lips parted, letting him in. A quick tongue peeked out, a teasing lick at the seam of his mouth, and Lancelot inhaled sharply, pressing closer. 

Gawain, as he discovered, tasted like rowanberries, soft laughing gasps and radiant smiles.

Exhaling sharply, Lancelot deepened the kiss, lifting a hand to caress Gawain’s cheek. He chased the taste, savoured it, a pleasant thrill running up his spine and making him shiver, light erupting under his eyelids as he leaned closer, craving more of the comforting, gentle scent and touch. 

The hesitant fingertips gliding over his cheek made him hum, biting at Gawain’s lip before he drew away, panting for air, his ears ringing as he tried to catch his breath. 

“This is so—incredible,” he breathed out, too flustered to care for how breathless he sounded.

“Come here, then,” Gawain prompted, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, a smug smile curling his lips and crinkling the corner of his eyes. Humming softly, Lancelot raised a hand to run his fingers down the soft ginger curls, tucking them behind a reddened delicate ear.

“I have to…” he began and then had to pause and swallow before he managed to finish, the words ringing hollow to his own ears, “... have to fight you.”

Gawain grinned, and it was — it was so much more when he was human, blinding in its intensity. “You can do it after we kiss again. What do you say?” 

Before he could answer, Gawain pulled up, catching his chin and biting gently into the corner of his mouth — and, his chest burning from the effort it took, Lancelot shoved him back. 

It came out too rough, sending Gawain tumbling to the ground. He barely managed to catch himself with one hand, scraping it over the needle-covered floor; at once, Lancelot was flooded with guilt at the wide, shocked eyes but looked away, refusing to admit that.

For a moment, Gawain was silent, touching his mouth, slender fingers pressed against the reddened plush of it. Then, he dropped his hand with a heavy sigh, a wistful note in his voice as he spoke:

“Yeah, alright. I should have known better.”

The snowstorm could have been damned because otherwise Lancelot definitely was. Clenching his jaw, he shouldered past Gawain, trying to get out, snow blinding him as it fell from the branches he shook on his way out. However, before he could crawl from under the tree and possibly find his demise in the forest, a warm hand caught his wrist.

“I am sorry,” Gawain blurted. “Lancelot, wait, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I am not scared,” Lancelot huffed, the statement slightly weakened by the way his teeth chattered and his breath was too shallow, wheezing panicked gasps.

Without pointing it out, Gawain drew him closer; Lancelot let him, clutching at his shoulders. Not uttering a word, too afraid to break the fragile silence, he let himself stay wrapped around the other man, the snowflakes still floating from the branches to their shoulders, jostled by their struggle. Outside of their shelter, the wind picked up, turning into a hurricane. It was promising to be a long blizzard—he had to get back to the camp, sooner or later—

He shivered, fingers clenching into a fist, as he tried not to touch more, not to trace the fragile collarbone peeing from under the soft fabric, not to kiss the slender throat—he wanted it so badly, he could only see those little things, the rest drowning in darkness.

Swallowing thickly, he dragged his gaze away, and Gawain let go, pulling back. 

“Lance. Does this,” he gestured between them and caught Lancelot’s hands in a careful grip, “feel like succumbing to evil or like being brave enough to choose something good? Are you telling me giving love is where you draw the line? Are you, really—do you truly believe in it, that there is nothing else for you but war? I bet those hands are good for more than bringing meaningless suffering.”

“What do you mean?” Lancelot asked, frowning fiercely, his wrists aching in the tender hold, eager to reach out but trembling with the effort of not following the urge. 

“What did you think?” Gawain grinned, but his smile slid off his face when Lancelot tried to pull away. “No, wait. I meant that you draw. You do, right?”

That’s not what Lancelot had expected, and his mind ground to a halt as he hastily pulled himself together, trying not to show his surprise. However, after a short moment of stunned silence, he let his shoulders drop. It did not make sense to deny it — it was innocent enough.

“How do you know?”

“Charcoal smudges on your fingers. And your face,” Gawain gave him a small, wry smile. “It’s not something you see at first, your marks are too distracting, but I looked for long enough to notice.”

Lancelot winced. “Oh god—now, too?”

“Yeah. Here.”

Reaching up, Gawain brushed a careful thumb over his forehead, then leaned in, pressing a slow, chaste kiss, before leaning back, eyes searching Lancelot’s face. Rendered speechless by the mirroring way their dance unfolded, Lancelot froze, watching him with wide wary eyes, his heart fluttering in his throat.

A gentle light shone in Gawain’s eyes that was in no way reminiscent of the depths of hell described in the book they read. If anything, it looked more like heaven.

“I should not do that,” Lancelot forced out in a strained whisper, the last of his defences crumbling down and spilling out in stilted words that felt wrong as soon as he uttered them. “Father says it’s a sin.”

“Drawing or kissing?”

“Both.”

Scoffing, Gawain shook his head gently. “How come you listen so much to a scared old man and so little to your own brave heart?”

Biting his lip, Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, desperately trying to restrain the rising feeling that threatened to sweep him under, tear him apart—and he wanted to let it, more than he ever imagined wanting anything. 

“You have more, you know,” Gawain murmured, gentle fingers skimming over the side of his face, and Lancelot made a soft, desperate sound. 

Hands balling into fists, he opened his eyes and resolutely looked up, meeting the warm green eyes.

“Where?” he asked.

A gentle press of warm, soft lips to his temple.

“Here.”

Gawain smiled, soft and small, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his eyes, over the curve of his cheek.

“And here.”

Lower now, across the cheek, across his tear-marks, and he huffed quietly but did not draw away.

“Here?” Gawain wondered softly, resting his thumb against Lancelot’s bottom lip.

Staring at him with wide eyes, Lancelot gave a small, barely perceptible nod. When Gawain leaned closer, he let his eyes flutter close, warm light flooding him from inside as around them, the snow kept falling, wind howling over the rocky slopes, the air saturated with the faint crackle of sorcery.


	5. we'll cling to each other on this icy day as we go down together

“It was not my judgement!”

“Well, it was surely your sword that carried out the sentence!”

“I didn’t know—I didn’t realise...” That it was all lies, blatant, simple lies that had once fooled a scared child and that he should have seen right through, but hadn’t, he hadn’t and all of the Albion fey paid the price, hundreds of innocent people falling victim to his arrogance, his stupidity, his selfishness, his cowardice. 

“You do now,” Gawain said tensely. “What are you going to do with that knowledge?”

Working his jaw for a long moment, Lancelot turned around without saying a word and left. His name followed him, as Gawain called out, but when he did not reply the first two times, the fey fell silent. It felt like with every step the silence stretched between them, a silk thread connecting them that twisted and grew taut until it snapped.

It snapped, and Lancelot made a soft, desperate noise at the back of his throat when it did but did not turn around. Only when he reached the turn of the path did he glance over his shoulder — to find an empty space where Gawain had stood before.

But the scent remained, sharp and musky, spicy and teasing, drifting in the air around him, and Lancelot held onto it with the desperate hope of a man following a thread out of a labyrinth. He had to go back to the camp, even though every step felt as if he was walking in the exact opposite direction of where the path he was meant to follow would have taken him.

Despite that, the red shadow prowled the darkness, silent and steadfast, appearing from the inky twilight. It followed him almost all the way to the camp, only stopping at the edge of the woods, and so did Lancelot, waiting for what he was sure was their last goodbye.

“I am sorry,” the shadow murmured, soft and wistful.

“What for?” Lancelot startled.

“For making you think I hate you. I do not. I haven’t for a while. Making a mistake is not a crime—not trying to fix it is. I am making one right now, I know, I should not run away when you are like this…”

“Like what?” Lancelot bristled, lips twisting in a snarl. “Guilty? Broken?”

“... scared.”

The silence fell between them, only the distant bustle of the camp to fill it, bright red fires setting the night ablaze. Then, Lancelot heard a small, shuddering gasp.

“I am scared, too. Scared you will do something you will regret.”

“You mean more of it?” Lancelot clarified, the words tasting so bitter in his mouth his jaw hurt from it.

“Don’t give in to self-hatred,” Gawain asked in a hushed voice. “That’s how it all started. You let them convince you you are a monster, and because of that, you acted like one. You are _not_ a monster.”

“No. I am just a puppet—a fox who thought himself a hound.”

“You _were_ that. You are not, not anymore.”

Lancelot sighed, closing his eyes and running a hand over his face.

“I am still on the wrong side,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Yes, but there must be a way to fix it,” Gawain said, his voice rising with nerves. “You can find it, I know because I know you, I am in—no, I cannot speak about it right now. We both need to cool down before we talk more. Find me tomorrow — I will be at the creak. Find me.”

With that, Gawain disappeared in the gathering dusk, followed by Lancelot’s eyes as he stood in silence, trying to put back together the pieces of his soul, what he believed in and what he knew to be false all shifting, merging, falling apart and coming together.

Everyone said love was a treasured, sacred thing. As always with those, he felt like a little match boy, peeking into the warmly lit windows while freezing barefoot outside; felt like a heathen, cowering outside the steps of a church. 

With a heavy sigh, Lancelot walked towards the camp, the fiery gleams of it reminding him more of hell than anything he had ever seen.

~

The creak bubbled brightly, oblivious to the awkward silence that reigned over its waters as they both sat side by side on the shore, studiously avoiding looking at each other. Lancelot studied the trees on the other side while Gawain stared at the water unblinkingly. The silence stretched until Lancelot broke it, drawing a shuddering inhale.

“I am a murderer,” he announced as if it was a new fact, which it wasn’t, and it made everything infinitely worse. “I was one before I even knew I could be anything else. That is my sin, not who I was born, but who I let myself become. There is nothing, nothing at all I can do to change what I am.”

He said it because he could not hold the words back anymore; they suffocated him like the boiling, bubbling black tar, hot and sticky, flooding his chest and rising in his throat. Naively, he thought that saying it would alleviate the burning, but when the words spilt out, twisted and ugly, they collided with the cold air and solidified into an unbearable weight crushing his ribs.

The realisation was building up for days, tormenting him in his sleep, and even the sweetness of Gawain’s kisses could not banish the darkness for long. If anything, Lancelot felt even more unworthy, stealing these little tokens of love from a man whose family and friends he had hunted down and condemned, a wretched arrogant coward playing God.

Now, said out loud, the words tore his ribcage apart, piercing his lungs and his throat, and he could barely breathe, so much it hurt. The ache only grew as the silence stretched, taut and cold, with every moment that Gawain kept quiet.

Ordering himself to keep still, to endure this torture that was only a sliver of what he truly deserved, Lancelot forced his way through the ragged shallows breaths that seemed to only fill his lungs with more stinging cold. Sniffling, he tore at his cloak, unfastening it and throwing it to the ground, as if shedding it would shed the shame, too.

Finally, Gawain inhaled quietly, his face set in a frown as he raised his hand, fingers brushing over his elbow.

“Lancelot, I…”

He could not do that. He could not hear those words come — could not just stand here like a punished dog, to be abandoned — so Lancelot yanked his arm free, turned around sharply, his stomach churning with disgust at being a craven who could not even face his sentence; still, he pushed up and began to walk away.

“Lancelot, wait! Wait, I said!” Gawain called out desperately, and then his voice changed, found depth and expanded, booming like thunder, the dry grass between the rocks bowing with its force. _“Wlancloth, stopiwch!”_

The force of his true name yanked him back like a leash, so sharp that he almost fell. Gritting his teeth, Lancelot bowed his head stubbornly and tried to lift his foot, sweat beading his forehead with effort as he fought the pull of the spell, compelling him to stand just as Gawain had ordered.

“You—can’t—own me—let me go, _Walewein,_ ” he bit out, panting, rivulets of sweat running in his eyes and blinding him, stinging salt he could not blink away. The edge of the cliff, which is where he was heading, was just fifteen steps far from him — too far, impossible to cross.

The magic crackled like dry twigs in the air between them, glittering with cold and sun, tiny sparks of something otherworldly piercing it, too. The low, teeth-rattling hum increased, and the air shimmered and warped again when their commands collided. Lancelot could feel his own will bend and falter, a physical sensation as if an invisible whip nestled in his chest arched and curled, vibrating—until it snapped and loosened, the tension dissipating so abruptly that he swayed on his feet and nearly fell.

Taking in great, wheezing gasps of air, Lancelot forced down nausea and willed his trembling knees to stop. He had never used this power before, and Gawain was so much stronger, the tension he must have felt only betrayed by a slight wince. The air between them settled, but a lingering heaviness in his feet remained that could not be explained by exhaustion, and Lancelot looked up with a scowl, baring his teeth.

“I am not controlling you, I am not,” Gawain protested, releasing the spell completely—he looked as if he was sick himself, green around the gills. “I am trying to stop you from killing yourself, that’s it, I swear.”

“What?” Lancelot frowned, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I was not going to kill myself.”

“No?”

Abandoning the fruitless struggle against his exhaustion, Lancelot dropped heavily to the ground. He sat there, chest heaving for air, and stared unseeingly in front of him because facing Gawain’s worried face was beyond him right now. The wet fabric of his shirt clung unpleasantly to his spine, the cloak laying in a miserable dark heap next to him; he shivered when the cold wind touched the nape of his neck and skimmed over his ribs.

“Is that what you think I should do?” Lancelot asked in a barely audible voice, looking at the pine trees bathed in golden sunlight. 

“No,” Gawain said immediately, sounding horrified, and then again, as he stepped closer and snatched the discarded cloak up to wrap it around Lancelot’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric with both hands. “No. No, no—no, Lance.”

“Why not?”

“If you kill yourself, I—,” Gawain paused, drew a shuddering inhale in. “It won’t bring you peace—or any of the people you wronged.”

That elusive peace dangled in front of him for years was starting to look more like a curse than a blessing, Lancelot thought grimly, clenching his hands into tight fists and frowning.

“I don’t want peace,” he said darkly. 

“We all want it,” Gawain argued softly, pulling away just enough to look him in the face, his own set in a sombre, worried frown. “I can speak for our folk back at Thule, and Lancelot, that is truly all we want. Just to live in peace, be one with this land, our only home.”

“What shall I do, then? To make it happen?” Lancelot breathed out tiredly, hiding his face in his hands but leaning into the gentle touch. “Just tell me what to do. You don’t even need to use my name, I am—I am yours, already, I will do whatever you want.”

“I won’t use you, name or no name,” Gawain said sharply, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I am terribly sorry I tried to force you, I got—got so scared.”

“Scared? For me?”

“Yes, Lancelot. I—,” Gawain squeezed his eyes shut, then exhaled sharply, opening them and meeting his confused gaze. “It’s time to admit it. By all laws, it should stop me, what you did, but it doesn’t. You have a grip on my heart that is stronger than fear or anger ever can be.”

The silence fell, sun-soaked and expectant, threaded with the stirring of the wind in the dry, dormant underbrush, over the breaking ice, their footprints clear in the mud of the path they had taken all the way up to this secluded clearing nestled in between the cliffs.

Sighing, Lancelot threw his head back, taking in the deep blue sky above them, first faint stars coming out, a handful of them thrown onto the dark expanse by the generous hand of the night. With his eyes half-closed, he could almost fool himself into thinking the rustle of the wind was that of the heavy blanket of evening twilight falling around them.

“I don’t want peace,” he repeated quietly, his breath fogging and drifting up to the sky, a humble offering. “I am not built for it. I want to fight for the just cause.”

The setting sun giving his red hair a menacing, bloody tint, Gawain was silent for a while, keeping a warm hand on his shoulder, before drawing it away. Shifting to stand up, he tossed his head back, too, looking at the thin sliver of the moon peeking through the clouds.

“Love is the only just cause to fight for,” he murmured, at last. “Just ask yourself who you love and fight for them.”

Lancelot huffed, shaking his head, then dropped back with a heavy sigh, back hitting the packed snow.

“You know who I love—you. I love you, too.”

A small, sharp intake of breath made him smile, burying his face into his forearm.

“Then this is your answer,” Gawain replied in such a high, trembling voice that Lancelot could not help but smile wider. It earned him a little huff, followed by hushed grumbling as Gawain accused him of nearly giving him a heart attack.

“Consider it a revenge for putting me under your spell,” Lancelot murmured evenly, briefly closing his eyes.

“I will teach you the words so that you can fight back,” Gawain promised earnestly, then huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Unless you were talking in metaphors, in which case, it’s my natural charm.”

There were many things he might have replied. He could have quipped about the thin line between fey charms and the viles, too. Could have used that as an accusation. Instead, he turned his head to look at Gawain, who glanced down as if called, and gestured for him to come closer.

When Gawain kneeled next to him, Lancelot leaned up to bury his face in his throat, inhaling the familiar soothing scent deeply.

“Kiss me again,” he asked softly, but Gawain shook his head, petting Lancelot’s hair gently, stroking over the damp strands and hugging his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace to share the heat and shelter Lancelot from the wind.

“No. Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“It seems to me right what you need right now is a friend. Though, mind you, I will kiss you every day from now to eternity. You will yet grow tired of my affection.”

Shaking his head again, Lancelot scoffed, taking a deeper inhale and listening to the steady, wonderful beat of Gawain’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Wlancloth is Lancelot's real Fey name and Walewein is Gawain's.  
> As Wiki kindly informs. "Alfred Anscombe proposed in 1913 that the name "Lancelot" came from Germanic *Wlancloth, with roots in the Old English wlenceo (pride) and loða (cloak), in connection with Vinoviloth, the name of a Gothic chief or tribe mentioned in the Getica (6th century)." Nothing seemed to fit The Weeping Monk persona better ;)


	6. when your need is greatest, just call upon my name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture ahead. Short homophobic comments from bad guys.

His knees hit the frozen ground, and with a short delay, his tunic hit it, too, when he pulled it over his head roughly.

The scourge did not hit him because Lancelot lowered it slowly, palm wrapped tightly around the cracked, old handle. He paused, his hand lingering on the cross he wore around his neck, as he thought what was it he wanted to say to God.

The cross that he had carried with him always now felt foreign in his palm, something new that he could not put into words yet echoing in thrumming under his fingertips. When he ran his fingers over the silent iron, it felt less as a claim of something divine and more as its absence.

“Lord,” he whispered, looking up. “If you hear me—if you ever heard me—tell me what to do. Show me a sign. Show me...”

He broke off, swallowing dryly, then finished:

“... Show me my enemy.”

He waited, but no answer came. The silence grew, the camp carried on around him, the usual commotion—paladins walking, laughing, talking, horses neighing, steel clinging. Closing his eyes, Lancelot inhaled shakily and bowed his head, pressing the cross to his lips. For a moment, he knelt like that, frozen in time, the world moving around him as if he had truly turned invisible.

Then, something shifted in the air, the familiar scent reaching his nose, and he frowned, opening his eyes. When he saw the source of it, he gasped, eyes going wide.

His hands were turning green, and the faint smell of magic drifted from his fingers. Forgetting to blink, Lancelot stared in shock—his hands never turned green on their own, he always had to touch an ash leaf to borrow some of its colour—until the sizzling sound snapped him out of his stunned daze.

A spark sprang into the air, and the cross caught fire in his hands—green, green fire.

Gasping, he dropped the cross as if burnt and shot up, his heart hammering in his chest. Despite his fears, the enchanted fire did not hurt him—and neither did it melt the metal. It merely danced, bright and unapologetic, reflecting in the cold surface of the cross, green glimmers gliding over the canvas walls of the tent.

Realising it would shine right through them, alerting the paladins, Lancelot made a panicked, aborted noise in the back of his throat and fell on his knees, frantically trying to smother the flame with handfuls of dirt. It refused to go out—instead, after a moment of his desperate attempts, it leapt from the cross to his hands. Startled, he watched it flicker between his forearms, going up, up, crawling up his neck—

—it slid over the hinge of his jaw to his cheek, a warm, gentle touch, like a caress of his mother’s fingers, as he remembered it. It blinded him for a moment, flooding the world with green, and Lancelot blinked automatically.

When he opened his eyes, the flame was no longer there, the dim grey dusk thickening in the tent.

Frozen, he waited for a moment longer, but it did not return. Letting out a relieved breath, he sucked the air in sharply and reached out for the cross laying on the ground—there was a glimmer of green in it as he picked it up—

—looking into the polished metal, Lancelot realised it was the reflection of his eyes. They were burning bright, wild green.

Unable to tear his gaze away, he stared at it, at the flicker that flared up bright and then dimmed, a spark hiding in the depth of his blue irises. It was barely noticeable—but Lancelot had no doubts anymore. If he wanted to, it would only take his will to ignite it.

Clenching his jaw, he tightened the grip on the cross. At first, it was a familiar feeling, the sharp corners digging into his palm, but in a moment, he forgot about it. He could see it now, every fire in the camp turning into his eyes, giving him sight. Their faces, every single disgusting detail that he had always forced himself to tune out, to gloss over — all of it stood out brighter now.

God was love. In this wretched place, there was no love, only lust — for suffering, and power, and fame. They all were chock full of it, black robes, red robes, brown robes — every single one of them, from a friar to the abbot, golden masks and honeyed words unable to conceal the cruel truth under them. 

Lancelot, for the first time, saw the light _—became_ the light.

The cross sizzled in his hand, but behind his back, the canvas flapped loudly in the wind, letting in the man he immediately recognised by the scent — vile, wrong. No one should smell like this when watching people suffer. 

“Lancelot?”

“Yes, Father?” Lancelot said, looking up.

The old man paused, taking him in. Lancelot met his eyes steadily — he knew that the flame was gone from his eyes, could feel it retreat.

“Have you got good news for me, son?”

“Yes, Father,” Lancelot repeated in a mild, even tone. The frozen ground was digging into his knees, into his bare feet that were numb with cold just a moment ago, but now it felt as if he just came back from the campfire—which he did.

“And? What are they?” the old man asked impatiently, clutching the book to his chest, the book that he had never let him read, the book that did not teach any of the things he had taught Lancelot.

Lowering his eyes, Lancelot looked at the cross he still gripped tight in his hand. The metal was all warped by the heat, following the lines of his palm now. He clenched his fist a bit harder, no longer finding the sharp edges that would dig into his flesh like spurs into the horse’s side.

“I am close,” he murmured. “Very close.”

~

Lancelot stood, blending into the shadows as he overlooked the paladins scurrying around him in a busy hive of a morning camp. 

He would have compared it to a beehive, if only it did not feel like a wasp nest, every worker carrying its own sting of steel at their belt. His eyes, dried of meaningless tears, sharp and alert now, followed them as he mentally mapped out the guard routes. It was his duty, after all, to set and overlook those.

It was also the perfect opportunity for him to escape.

~

Hooting like an owl, Lancelot paused, ears perked up for the response. He did not have to wait long — the snow creaked, and a slender cloaked figure appeared from behind the birch tree.

“Gawain,” he breathed out with a smile, catching the young man in an embrace and inhaling his scent greedily, his head spinning a bit. It was not enough to make him miss how Gawain tensed under his hands, and Lancelot drew away, brows knitting together. “Are you afraid of—”

“Of course not,” Gawain bristled, turning his head left and right with a frown. “It’s still too close.”

“I didn’t want to risk another foray far,” Lancelot murmured, pressing dozens of tiny, soft kisses to the soft, smooth cheek. “I am sorry. I just wanted to see you before I do it.”

“I wanted to see you, too,” Gawain admitted quietly, finally pausing in, looking out for danger and meeting his eyes. “I would have come even if you didn’t ask. Just would have done it on four legs — why did you want me to come on two? You know I cast spells worse then.”

Swallowing thickly, Lancelot smoothed his hands up and down Gawain’s forearms and tried to choose his words as carefully as he would his steps when walking over thin ice.

“I want to know what it is like to be with you.”

Gawain looked at him for a long moment, a flicker of confusion quickly replaced by a tense, tormented expression on his face.

“I wish for that more than you can imagine,” he said in a low, anguished voice and pulled back slightly. “But it is not a good idea.” 

“Please,” Lancelot begged, tugging Gawain closer, trying and failing to not let his heartbreak reflect in his voice. “It might be our only chance—I am ready for it.”

“So am I,” Gawain murmured, pressing a kiss to his knuckles but drawing away slightly. “But I can’t.”

“Why not? What is wrong—do you not want me?” Lancelot whispered, eyes flitting frantically as he tried to parse out the conflicted look darkening Gawain’s face.

“Of course I do,” Gawain whispered angrily, raising a hand to cradle Lancelot’s cheek, and Lancelot pressed his face into it, a confused frown knitting his brows together, as he listened to Gawain. “I want you too much, that’s the problem.”

The pained, low voice in which he said it was enough to convince Lancelot that he was not being lied to. It still left him hollow, this unattainable part of life escaping him when he was least sure he would have another chance to taste it. However, now that the high of nerves was over, he couldn’t help but sag a bit in their embrace, letting his eyes flutter almost close as he nuzzled into Gawain’s hair.

Patting him a bit frantically, Gawain swallowed hard and tightened the grip on his shoulders. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow — why do you look at me like this?”

“Do I need to prove myself?” Lancelot wondered, in a subdued tone, a tendril of cold creeping into his stomach that he refused entry, intent on not doubting Gawain—but doubting himself.

“You have nothing to prove. That is not the reason. But this is a risk, Lancelot, I don’t want you to be hurt because we forget ourselves — and I _will_ forget myself.”

Slowly, Lancelot nodded. As much as it pained him to admit it, he saw the reason in Gawain’s words, knew it himself even though he dared to deny it for once. Silently bowing his head, he pressed a lingering, chaste kiss to the tendons of the slender neck, felt the throat bob under his lips and savoured the feeling for a moment longer, inhaling the scent deeply.

“Survive tomorrow,” Gawain murmured, pressing their foreheads together briefly before drawing away, their hands still clasped together. “You are strong. You survived so much already—you can do it again. One day, Lancelot. Just one day.”

“Why are you scared?” Lancelot wondered quietly. “It’s not a complicated plan. I only need one spark.”

“It might be so, but fates are fickle, and if I lose you,” Gawain began quietly, squeezing his hands. “I will not be able to stop myself, I will fight them all and—I can’t. I have people I need to protect.”

Pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his lips, Gawain drew back, his eyes ablaze with conviction, two flames of a wild fey fire.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, his voice trembling with tension. “Tomorrow we fight, we win, and then we meet the dawn together.” 

“When do we love in the middle of it all?” Lancelot asked quietly, taking a step back and then another, backing away to the camp. 

“Always,” Gawain replied, not moving an inch, as he proudly raised his chin, his eyes gleaming green and wet. “We love always, Lancelot.”

~

“Where have you been?”

Lancelot froze, hand hovering near the saddlebag strap he was tightening. Under his hand, the warm black fur lifted as Goliath inhaled deeply, eyeing the men standing behind his master in a half-circle. 

“Investigating the trail,” Lancelot replied, forcing his voice to be even. Incense and sword oil permeating the evening air made him want to scrunch his nose and bare his teeth, but he forced the impulse down.

“Oh,” Wicklow said in that awful, condescending tone he used when he had someone pinned down and enjoyed toying with them. “Did it belong to the fey boy you were seeing? Or someone else?”

His insides turning into icy stone, Lancelot slowly turned around, the hairs on the back of his neck rising even before he came face to face with the entire Trinity Guard standing in dead silence behind their master. Despite the golden masks obscuring their faces, he knew instinctively they were all looking at him, every single one, a dozen heavy weights pinning him down like a stupid, careless butterfly.

“Father approved this strategy,” he said as calmly as he could, his heart seizing and failing in his chest. “The boy is needed alive.”

“What for, if I may inquire?”

The torches flickered over the gold, red gleam, lending the masks that one bit of macabre feel needed to tip them from threatening into horrifying. Lancelot’s blood ran cold as his gaze shifted slowly between them and the abbot, who was waiting for his reply with a serene expression, only slightly betrayed by a snake-like smirk. Where Father’s eyes would have been blazing with anger, the abbot’s were cold as stone — and it terrified Lancelot far more.

Willing himself not to twitch a single muscle in his face that could have betrayed his fear, he replied, his voice coming out as a rasp as if his throat was lined with sandpaper.

“He is the only one who knows the spell that locks their hideout.”

“Why not just get him to talk then? It will surely not take Brother Salt long to break the boy.”

Clenching his jaw, Lancelot slowly exhaled. His fingers stroke over the pommel of the sword before he could catch himself, and the abbot’s eyes flickered to follow the movement but immediately lifted again, settling on Lancelot’s face. He could feel them like snakes, gliding over his cheeks, opening their jaws to threaten him with sharp fangs, glistening with venom.

“His disappearance will alert the rest of them,” he explained in a hoarse voice. “He is Wolf-Blood Witch’s brother. They will run further, across the border.”

Tilting his head, Wicklow paused, a faint frown crossing his face. “I could help but notice that he came by foot. Which makes me surmise the fey cannot be so far as to learn he is dead before you lead our brothers to them.”

“He is fey. We—,” Lancelot faltered, then coughed softly. “We cannot expect him not to have used magic to cover a larger distance. He can turn into animals, birds, as well.”

The tense silence stretched, every second of it making Lancelot feel as if it pulled his joints, as Wicklow studied him intently. The torches flickered, sending shifting red light glide across the golden masks, still standing in complete silence behind the abbot’s back, eerily unmoving save for the barely noticeable rise and fall of their chests as they breathed.

It surprised him, really, that they still did because what did they need it for if there were no hearts in those chests.

Finally, Wicklow broke off the stalemate.

“I believe I made a mistake, then,” he remarked, narrowing his eyes and raising his chin. “Forgive me.”

Lancelot inclined his head tensely, turning away—

—”I misspoke. I said _our_ brothers, while it seems yours are the ones hiding in the woods.”

The steel screeched angrily when Lancelot whipped the blade out, twisting around and falling into a low crouch, aiming for the abbot’s legs — but missed, as the man had been out of reach, already; before he could lash out again, a chain wrapped the blade, yanking it out if his hands.

He held onto it out of instinct, his wrist screaming in pain, and got pulled along before he finally dropped the hilt. Reaching out with the good hand for the long dagger still at his belt, Lancelot dove under another strike, letting it glide over his head, barely dodging two more, one of them catching him in the side. He twisted out of the way, then rolled, trying to put some distance between himself and the attackers. Behind his back, Goliath screamed, kicking out — he landed a solid hit into the chest of one of the men, who dropped down like a stone.

Glancing at him, Lancelot realised with horrible clarity that only one of them could get away—with two of the guards holding longbows, they would not hesitate to kill a horse if it meant capturing him. But if Gawain saw the stallion without his rider…

All of this took him barely a couple of seconds to think. Heart beating wildly in his throat, Lancelot shouted:

“Rhedeg! Goliath, _rhedeg! Dewch o hyd Wein!”_

Neighing angrily, the horse threw off another man, who was reaching for his reins, then tossed his head and broke into a gallop, hooves thundering over the packed, dirty snow. Clutching at his side, Lancelot did not waste a second, spinning around to catch one of the assailants by the arm, breaking it and sticking the dagger under the man’s ribs, the shout breaking on a strained gurgle.

He evaded another attack, the blades clashing above his head as he lashed out, cutting the tendons with unerring precision — but then a heavy, metal-toed boot landed on his ribs, throwing him off balance. A chain caught him in the back, and he stumbled — after that, with all the guards surrounding him like a pack of hounds, it was one blow after another, blinding, crushing, crunching pain.

“Enough.”

Blood streaming steadily down his chin from his broken nose, Lancelot wheezed out a rasping breath and looked up, feeling blindly with his hand for the knife he knew was still lying nearby in the frozen mud. Just before his fingers could brush against the metal, a heavy foot landed on his palm, pinning it in place, making Lancelot grit his teeth, sharp pulses of pain shooting up his arm.

The green that only started to gather under his skin, following the veins, fizzled out, its absence flooding Lancelot with despair. He could almost hear the bone crunch, his flesh giving way, but then the quiet, light footsteps approached, and the pressure relented, the guard stepping back. It did not stop one of them from kicking him in the back, making him fall on his hands and knees in front of Wicklow. 

“Stop it,” the abbot admonished. “I believe he remembered his place. Bind him and bring him to the Kitchens.”

A heavy arm caught him in a headlock, hauling him upright, and he clawed at it with both hands in a vain attempt to pry it away, but it did not relent, his nails scraping over the steel hidden under the black robe sleeve. Breathing heavily through his mouth, Lancelot jerked when his arms were roughly yanked back, a thick rope wrapping around his wrists. An unseen guard grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head back, and he bared his teeth silently, meeting the abbot’s eyes.

“It’s a pity,” Wicklow remarked, something predatory, excited thrumming under the papery skin of his face, slithering and shifting there like wreathing serpents, as he demurely hid his hands in the long sleeves of his cassock. “If you would not have had such compassion for animals of all kinds, you might have gotten away.”

Before Lancelot could spit out the acid pooling in his mouth, mixed with blood, a heavy, cold weight settled on his neck, dug in, something clicking near the base of his skull — a lock, he realised with dawning horror, they put him into a—a fucking iron collar—

Behind the abbot, he could see the red-robed friars stream out of the tents, gathering to see what was going on. Stupidly, a flicker of hope flared up that one of them would say something — the men he trained, fought with side by side, led into a battle…

“What has he done?” one of them called out, a severely frowning blacksmith who was wiping his large hands free of soot.

“He is a traitor and a spy,” the abbot replied immediately, adopting an appropriately resentful expression. “Witness, brothers, the true atrocity — a fey demon who hid in our midst. All this time, he led you on this wild goose chase, luring you into fey ambushes to die from their arrows — but do not fear any more. He will face punishment for his sins now.”

The confused, angry mutters rolled over the crowd as Lancelot knelt on the frozen ground, bound and helpless, one eye swollen shut, his nose broken, his shoulder dislocated — he could barely take an inhale, even though the pain still barely made it through the haze of adrenaline. 

Something clanked behind him, the weight on his spine increasing, and then it pulled him back. They must have fastened the chain to the collar, and Lancelot’s stomach dropped.

 _Father,_ he thought wildly, straining against the bounds _, where was Father_ —and then he remembered he had chosen the moment when the old man was out of the camp, planning to find him to face him alone. He had dug his own grave.

He snapped back into focus when the abbot nodded at the two guards, who stepped forward, overseeing that the crowd dispersed. The other guards surrounded Lancelot; one of them forced him to get up, at once shoving him forward so hard he nearly fell again.

Through the blood and sweat streaming down his forehead, he could see the paladins scatter like a flock herded by two black-clad men. The Guard holding his chain shoved him again when he did not move, shepherding him into the direction of the Kitchens.

Blood roaring in his ears, dripping from his face, welling in his mouth, Lancelot clung to the last remnants of his dignity, trying to remain upright. However, he was too slow, and the guard landed a brutal kick to his leg, sending him tumbling to the ground.

They dragged him through the camp, his heels kicking into the frozen ground and darkness flooding his mind, his mind flickering like a dying candle as he tried to cling to something that would remind him that even though all of that had happened before, he was not a five-year-old boy anymore.

 _No, no, no,_ Lancelot thought, straining against the collar he was being hauled by, the thick ring of steel suffocating him. “Stop—I beg you, you don’t understand—”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Wicklow remarked dryly, the long sleeves swaying rhythmically as he walked next to them, careful enough not to step too close to Lancelot’s flailing feet. “Father Carden warmed a snake on his chest. It is a regretful development. However, it would be unthinkable to leave a fellow Christian to the delusions his noble endeavour led him to, so I will find it in my heart to forgive him.”

“I am—I am Christian,” Lancelot rasped out, the words tinged with blood as he fought against the strain on his throat. “Why do you…”

“Only true believers are worthy of forgiveness, and you are none. Your transgressions are too grave for me to overlook. After all, treachery, fey, is the worst of all sins.”

Throwing Lancelot to the side, the guard stepped away, watching impassively how he coughed and spluttered, trying to suck enough air in. They looped his chain around the tent pole just as Brother Salt stepped in, carrying the bundle a mere sight of which made Lancelot’s stomach lurch with horror.

The guards got the first go. They beat him with ruthless, sadistic viciousness that felt too personal as if he was more than just another fey caught; no, he was a blemish on their honour, someone who fooled them for so long, who challenged their skill — and now they enjoyed showing him his place.

He could no longer remember where he was, when he was, as he called for mercy, even though he already knew he would not find it. The past and the present all folded onto each other, crashing and mingling over him like one sea wave after another, dragging him under and drowning out any awareness of how much time had passed.

The unhealed lashing scars on his back opened again, blood oozing slowly down his spine, and he trembled, trying to get up. He went as far as propping himself up, going on his knees, head bowed low and pink-tinged saliva dripping from his split lips, from his broken nose, wheezing breaths rattling his chest.

Then, the high, haughty voice sounded again.

“Where are they hiding? Where are the rest of your folk?”

 _In their graves,_ Lancelot thought but kept silent. He dared not to utter a word, too afraid of why might spill from his lips if he allowed a single sound to escape. 

Someone hauled him up by the throat, kept him in place as the torturer stepped closer, a nauseating scent of stale blood making Lancelot gag—and then he squeezed his eyes shut, groaning in agony. The salt burnt, blind and merciless. 

“Where are they? Where is their hideout?”

Another hit. His skin split open like the cracked tree bark, blood oozing down his side. More salt, as if he was just a slab of meat, something insentient and not deserving of a drop of compassion.

“Are you ready to burn for them? Or is it for him?”

Someone tore the nail from his fingers, and Lancelot screamed, choking on the gag that was pushed into his mouth. 

“We are going to get him, too. It will happen whether or not you talk. The hounds are already in the woods.”

The brand touched his skin, his flesh sizzling, the horrible scent of burning meat filling Lancelot’s nostrils, followed by the unbearable pain. He groaned, wild and panicked, then screamed, when it pressed deeper, shouts muffled by the gag—but before he could pass out, the fabric flapped loudly, letting the gust of cold air in. 

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Heart skipping a beat, lurching painfully in his chest as he tried to open his swollen eye, Lancelot froze, unable to believe his ears. 

“Ah, Father Carden, good of you to join us,” Wicklow raised a hand to silence the enraged old monk. “Please, let me finish. I must say your unorthodox hunting methods already put you in a precarious enough position—”

While the smooth speech dripped from the abbot’s mouth, Lancelot managed to peel his watering eyes open, looking up at the red and grey blur that sharpened into his Father. 

“—fraternised with one of them, a young man, as if the rest was not enough—”

The old man was a visage of disapproval, breathing menace as he looked down at him with such scorn that Lancelot bared his teeth in a pitiful snarl, unable to bear it. 

“This wretched creature will not suffer at your hand.”

The silence fell in the tent, so loud and sudden that it rang in Lancelot’s ears. It was not possible—he had wronged the man—to come to his aid—he should be begging for forgiveness… But before he could utter a word, Carden took the whip from the guard, the black handle resting in the ruddy palm the only thing Lancelot could see.

“He is mine to punish. Not yours.”

Brother Salt stepped back first, and, with a moment’s delay, so did the abbot, a strange look spreading on his face as if he could not decide whether to appear appreciative or disgusted. In the end, it did not matter because they all shifted to let his Father step closer, the whip running down from his hand like a silent black serpent.

“You failed me. I gave you all I could, and this is how you repaid me. You’re damned, Lancelot. All that suffering, and you still are, because you could not contain your bestial, perverted nature.”

The whip cracked, followed by a desperate, howling scream that Lancelot distantly realised tore from his throat. Someone wrangled his head back, shouted another question, yanking the rag out of his mouth.

“Speak, you wretched beast. Confess your sins.”

The tiny hands clutching at the iron bars. The scared blue eyes. _Remember us. Avenge us._

Spitting the blood, Lancelot raised his gaze.

“Lionel,” he rasped, looking at the man he had called Father, and snarled, ignoring the sting of his broken lips. “Lionel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way Lancelot repeats the name of his dead cousin is a reference to how Bucky Barnes repeated his own name when tortured. It is a bit of a Hollywood thing, but from anecdotal evidence it seems to be a possible "block line", so I went with that.


	7. he's laughed so loud that the green woods shook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenes in this chapter are greatly inspired by Heather Dale - Black Fox [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpH-pu0AtRM).

His entire body throbbed with fierce pain that became steadily stronger as the fear flooded in, not the one that drove him to fight, but the one that made him sick and cold as he trembled, naked, in the pool of his own bodily fluids. 

“Shall we give him to the hounds to be bred? He seems to like to lay with animals. Bet he let that fox knot him under the first bush.”

His teeth chattering, Lancelot wrapped his arms around himself and drew his knees up as he best as he could. Just this morning, he would not have believed such a thing could come out of a man’s mouth. Now, he simply hoped he would pass out before they could make good on their threat.

“You’re being un-Christian, Balsamo. Pass me the wine and see that he doesn’t bleed out before dawn. Can’t have this bitch dying before we make an example out of him.”

~

When the deep navy of the shadows started to give way to steely grey, the Trinity Guards were done with the bloodied, beaten mess that was Lancelot. With the last jeers, spat at him together with actual spit, they left for prime. 

Without giving him another word, Father left first, trailed by the black-clad men. The abbot followed, tailing the processing, but paused in the entrance, one foot already outside, snow blown inside through the opening in the fabric.

“Think about what awaits you at dawn and pray,” he threw over his shoulder, a disdainful sneer twisting his thin lips. It almost looked like regret—the one might show when putting down a prized hound that went rabid. “You’re to burn at long last, fey. It might take hours, from what your Father told about your brothers, but you will.”

With that, the fabric fell closed, cutting off the light, leaving Lancelot in the darkness. He was still bound, laying on the ground with barely a scrap of tattered clothes left on him. The heavy, acrid scent filled the tent, making his eyes water and his stomach churn.

Through the hours of torture, he had tried to call for the fey fire, but the pain was too much, blow after blow. The abbot had forbidden them from mutilating his face or dealing any lasting damage to his sword arm. He had held hope that Lancelot might show remorse—that he might still be used. It was only when the dark started to lift that he gave up on that idea.

Now, Lancelot was left alone.

Lyonel, he repeated to himself. Lyonel, Ector. Names and faced flooded, the locks on the memories he had kept broken by the torture that threw him all the way back into his past. Lyonel, Ector, Elaine, Ban… Lyonel, he had said, first shouting it as the answer to all their questions, spitting it in their faces, an accusation and a curse, then, when his voice had given out, just saying it in his head, again and again. 

Lyonel.

Ector. Elaine. Mother.

Mother, he repeated, again and again, straining to reach out to the barely remembered visage, not realising it was gone.

After shivering for what felt like an eternity, Lancelot forced himself to move, trying to sit up but failing. His hands were tied in front of him, as they were afraid of giving him the smallest chance of somehow getting rid of the bounds behind his back. They left it like that, darkly joking that he might want a chance to pray.

Twisting to lay on his side, Lancelot shivered again, blinking the sweat away, shallow breaths rattling his chest as he tried to focus on his hands. The green gathered on his bloodied fingers, shifting under his skin, pooling like a liquid would, like the blood that was slowly, steadily leaving Lancelot, oozing from his wounds.

_ Walewein, _ Lancelot thought, unable to speak, the pain not letting him breathe in properly. He had to speak, had to call on his lover for help—

_ Walewein was waiting for him at dawn. _

A small spark glided over his fingers and sizzled out, quickly followed by another, small, erratic pulses of magic running through his hand.

_ It takes concentration. Think about… Burn. At long last, burn. _

The fires. The fires, so many of them, strewn across countries and years, from the shores of Brittany to the woods of Albion, chains burning bright at night. Once he thought about the flames, imagined them clearly, he did not need to concentrate on them, he simply had to let the fire that had always been burning bright escape the door he had kept it behind for years.

It sparkled again, bright and blinding. A beautiful way to go out, lighting his own funeral pyre.

The flame caught on the hem of the canvas wall and crawled up, more reminiscent of a vine than it was of fire. Lancelot watched it go, forgetting to blink, his eyes watering as they followed the tiny green spark make its way up. Reaching the ceiling, it flickered there, swaying slightly as if in thought—

—and exploded.

The air erupted, a deafening boom rolling over Lancelot, tearing the tent asunder. Out of instinct, he shut his eyes and threw his arms up, the wooden ceiling beams coming down on him—but they shattered into ash as soon as they touched his skin, covering him in a thick layer of black soot. The ropes, the last remains of fabric—all of it flew down his skin and scattered in the wind.

A short moment passed, filled with muffled screaming and crackle of the fire, the ash raining down on him in soft flakes. After another moment, Lancelot cracked his tightly squeezed eyes open and lowered his hands to glance around warily. 

He was laying in the centre of the wreckage, in the bottom of the small burnt-out crater. The snow around him was illuminated from inside strangely, the faint green light shining in its depths as it melted in some places and crystallized in others. It was turning black and crumbling along the edges like charred paper, a shiny anthracite crust covering it.

The green sizzled under his skin, too, not exactly knitting the flesh, but keeping it together and lending him enough support to sit up and wait for his body to absorb some of the fire pooling at his feet. Propping up on his trembling arms, blood-slicked fingers sliding over the dark ground unearthed by the explosion, Lancelot tore his eyes away from the glowing snow and froze, taking in the calamity, shouts and screams finally piercing the ringing haze in his head as his ears popped. 

Around him, the paladin camp was in chaos, every single tent turned into a verdant green bonfire, the air filled with thick black smoke that rose to the cold grey sky.

The fire he had summoned was nothing like the usual one. It behaved like a sentient creature, leaping from one tent to another like an insolent cat that enjoyed being chased after. The moment one of the paladins doused it with water, it froze for a moment, flickering in place—and then flared up even brighter. 

When another bucket was tossed, the flame latched onto the droplets, climbing up their arch in a blink and jumping to the hands still holding the handle. There was no stench of burning flesh, only an overwhelming smell of ozone and mint, but the man screamed all the same as the flames devoured his flesh.

His eyes bulged, filled with the green that now raged from inside him, shining through his chest and out of his throat as he tossed his head back, the fire welling fast in it, and—

—Lancelot looked away, his stomach churning, and had to wait for a moment before he managed to push nausea down. The fire seemed truly volatile, prone to exploding at the slightest provocation — he had to get it under control, somehow, but he had no idea how. It was on his side, anyway — so he got up and, stumbling, headed to the edge of the camp.

Dodging the falling crosses that landed into the snow with a deafening, blood-curling creak and roar, Lancelot kept glancing around. To his right, across the patch of blackened snow, he spotted a bunch of Trinity Guards huddled together in a circle around the abbot. They seemed to have caught up on the fact that the fire reacted to being attacked, and did not try to lunge, just warding it off with the steel — from which it actually shied away.

His bleeding fingers curled into a fist, and he felt the thrum climbing up it, resonating with the low hum permeating the air all around him. As if hearing it, the closest flame leapt to his side, licking up his hand curiously. Lancelot startled violently, but the flame just coiled around his forearm and rested there.

He let his eyes linger at it for a moment longer, feeling as if it stared back at him, before slowly raising his gaze, finding the guards again.

They saw him, too. Even with the masks concealing their features, he could see their confusion as they lowered their weapons for a brief moment. Naked, covered in soot from head to toe, with green flames wrapping around his left hand and a sword clutched in the right one, Lancelot supposed he must have struck quite an impression.

“Demon,” one of the guards whispered and then louder. “Demon! Brothers, pr—”

He did not get to finish — the fire lunged like a viper, flaring up, and the man choked on air, stumbling back so fast he fell. The other guards stepped forward, though, all turning to face Lancelot.

“Get yourself together,” one of them forced out, raising his blade with slightly shaking hands. “It’s just a lone fey.”

Tilting his head to the side, Lancelot bared his teeth in a dark, feral grin. It suddenly seemed funny to him how they did not understand how not alone he was because every single flame in the wildfire raging around them was  _ him. _

His eyes found the abbot, who was looking at him with furious anger twisting his features. A lopsided grin tugged the corner of Lancelot’s mouth up.

“How long,” he rasped out, tasting blood, “do you think it will take me to burn  _ you?” _

The fear was so strong, he could taste on his tongue. He waited for them to come closer; flexed his hand, rolled his shoulders, willing his exhausted body, stunned into numbness, to obey for just a bit longer. 

When the first guard lunged at him, Lancelot and the fire struck simultaneously.

He caught the blade with his own and twirled around, forcing the man off balance — the fire leapt to the guard’s back, ran up his spine, diving under the mask and filling it with an ethereal, eerie green glow. The gold sizzled, melting, as the man clutched at his face, his shouts muffled by what was no longer the symbol of terror but a funeral mask.

The others went down much the same way. With the aid of a quick fire that seemed to move like liquid, Lancelot mowed the assailants down as one would grass, his blade gleaming through the air and biting into their necks, hot blood spurting into the air, painting his face and hands more, redder, the wild green following right after as it latched onto the wounded men, tearing them into pieces.

With every death, the weight lifted off Lancelot’s chest, and he straightened like a young tree, relieved of a burden of ropes tugging it to the ground. His body caught the flow again, movements turning fluid and steps dance-like; if at first the guards’ blade still caught his skin, slicing his calves and shoulder, then now he pirouetted out of touch just before they had a chance to reach him.

He was almost disappointed when it was over, his torturers just piles of smoking, charred flesh thrown all around him, snow slick with blood, eerie gleams of green fire gliding over it. He had to chase the abbot, but now, putting the boot into his chest to pull the sword out of it, Lancelot could not suppress the vindictive glee spreading in his veins, the flames around echoing its pulse. He only wished he could have made the man suffer for longer.

However, he did not have time to lament for long, the panicked neighing snapping him out of his daze. The spooked horses rushed past him; Lancelot barely managed to twirl out of their way, his shoulders hunched again as he clutched at his side—the ribs were definitely fractured, he thought in panic, the adrenaline rush sizzling out. The sword was too heavy in his hand, dragging him down, the tip of the blade digging deeper and deeper into the snow as it trailed after him.

The strange, unnatural heat that radiated from the green fire kept him from freezing, even though he did not feel it as he would have the normal one — but it also blinded him, making it difficult to find his way out of the camp. He stumbled through the wreckage, people shouting all around him, burning, tents crumbling to ash that drifted in the air, green-tinged speckles of it flying into Lancelot’s eyes.

He blinked them away, startled, seeing the familiar figure sprawled on the ground, either unconscious or dead. Limping, he approached it, paused, trying to make out whether the old man was breathing, then gave up. With both hands, Lancelot grabbed at the sword pommel and raised it, a short, vicious stab to the chest that pinned Father Carden to the ground.

His eyes flew open, blood gurgling out of his throat, spurting to his lips and running down his chin. He grabbed at the blade piercing his lungs, cutting his palms on the edge as he tried to wrangle it out — but Lancelot pressed in with his entire weight. Their gazes met briefly, the pale blue, bloodshot eyes locking with the ones glowing dimly green—

—“See you in hell, bastard,” Lancelot spat out, twisting the blade in.

The blood-stained lips twisted, twitched, as the man tried to force out the words, but then the hate-filled eyes dimmed, the last light going out of them.

In the end, after more than a decade of losing every argument, the last word belonged to Lancelot.

He fell back with a heavy sigh, collapsing next to the man, gulping the air and wincing at the taste, ozone and mint now tinged with too much ash, blood, shit—all the disgusting smells of people dying all around him. Distantly, Lancelot realised he had to put a stop to it, or at least had to get out, but his legs refused to obey him.

He tried to get up, anyway, then fell again, scrambled to his knees and crawled, sticking the sword in the snow for support, pulling himself up and then again. It was taking up so much of his focus, his vision narrowing down to the next couple of inches in front of him, that he did not immediately realise that there was something soft pushing into his shoulder.

With a jump, Lancelot glanced up to see a huge, black muzzle, large eyes studying him from under the long eyelashes.

“Goliath,” he croaked out, tears welling in his eyes as he reached up to pat the velvety nose and then chuckled when it bumped into his hand. “Goli—you’re alive…”

“Lancelot!”

Startling again, heart racing all anew in painful, heavy thumps, Lancelot twisted awkwardly to the side to see Gawain run out of the thick black smoke. In long, frantic leaps, the fox crossed the distance separating them and fell next to Lancelot, ears flattened and tail wiggling desperately as he pressed close with his entire body, licking at Lancelot’s face and kneading at his arm.

Burying his face in the fox’s scruff, Lancelot drew a shuddering, sobbing inhale and then froze, realising with a sinking stomach that he could no longer call on the thread of connection tethering him to the fire. It was still there, and the heat did not turn unbearable, but the magic was faint and limp, throbbing painfully in his chest like an open wound, a muscle torn by the exertion.

“’Wein—Wein, I…” he began in a broken whisper, finger spasming in the ruffled red fur covered with soot and crystals of snow. “The fire does not listen…”

“It’s fine, it still won’t hurt us. Get up,” Gawain panted out, stepping back. His eyes, still wild, were just a dim reflection of the fire raging all around them, chasing the scattered paladins who now just ran, trying to escape with their lives — as Lancelot knew they should do, too. “Get up—get on Goliath, we’re getting you out.”

Muscles twisted and shredded by pain, Lancelot tried to obey but fell back again with a pained groan, fingers skimming uselessly down the long black mane. Gawain paused, pawing at him and glanced down, his eyes going impossibly wide. After a moment of staring at his ribs, the fox squeezed his eyes shut and started chanting something under his breath.

The pain ebbed, fading into nothing, strange numbness spreading in its wake.

“It won’t last long,” Gawain warned, watching how Goliath went down on his knees, making the task easier for his master. 

Giving the fox a short nod, Lancelot swallowed hard, hauling himself up again and finally managing to mount the horse. Now that the spell coursed his veins, the pain no longer prevented him from moving, even though he was still jerky, weird, nothing really healed, just cut off from his mind. It was better than nothing—and, picking up the reins, he urged Goliath to move.

His eyes caught more of the dark-robed silhouettes emerging from the thick smoke. Without a thought, he sent the horse into a gallop, his entire body rattled with shooting pain — but it was too late; more Guards with their dogs gave chase.

The hooves thundered on the frozen ground, the hounds flying on his heels with loud barking, golden masks following right behind them, the dark shadows terrifying in their silence. Goliath was faster, flying swift as an arrow through the green-tinged darkness and breaking out into the grey dusk gathered outside the camp.

Leaning close to the neck of the horse, Lancelot urged him forward again, the winding forest path leading them west. There was a flash of red fur to his side, a gleam of glowing green, eyes burning like coals, a warning barked out, and then Lancelot barely managed to swivel Goliath to the side, an arrow wheezing past him, embedding into the tree trunk.

“Ride to the river! The river, Lancelot!”

When he dug his heels into the horse’s side, Goliath inhaled, sides rising and then falling sharply, and picked up the pace, flying down the rocky path as if he had wings. More scattered arrows followed them, but there were few enough that none found their target — though Lancelot knew with the next round he might not be as lucky.

Thankfully, Gawain seemed to have an idea as he fell behind a bit and stepped to the side, letting Goliath and Lancelot fly past him. The fox barked behind them, and more of the forest animals answered, hooting and howling all around. For all that he knew that they were on his side, hairs rose on Lancelot’s neck at the cacophony, and from the whimpering behind him, he guessed the hounds were just as scared.

There was a crack of a whip, one of the guards swearing, and the hounds fell silent. However, the uproar around them was just picking up, every single nocturnal forest creature calling out. The mice spilt out of their holes, scattering over the path—and then the awakened snakes followed them, slithering under the hooves, forcing the horses to rear, throwing some of the guards down.

Goliath also jerked violently, leaping over a few of the vipers and adders winding their way to the guards, but remained on course, carrying Lancelot further away, Those guards who managed to remain in their saddles could still shoot him — but just as that thought flashed through his mind, a magnificent shadow appeared out of the darkness above the path, shooting past him in dead silence, feathers brushing over his face as he barely managed to lean to the side, dodging it.

More followed, the flapping of wings briefly surrounding Lancelot, a cloud of wildly flickering feathers drowning out everything — panic surged in his throat, but the birds were gone in a blink. Dozens of them—owls, falcons, and hawks—descended onto the remaining guards, clawing at them with ear-splitting screeching.

Heart leaping out of his chest, Lancelot spurred Goliath on, cutting through the cloud of croaking ravens that followed the first birds of prey. Their coal-black wings brushed past him, but he got away with only a couple of scratches while the guards were screaming hoarse with fury and pain behind him. He did not have to look back to know they were chasing him, still, and he urged Goliath again, praying to all the old gods at once.

Someone must have listened because they managed to reach the wide creak without the guards catching up with them, Gawain joining them soon. Its fast, shallow waters flowed down the rocky ledges, and they had to ride downstream for a short while, looking for a safer place to cross. The scattered chase behind them was catching up, the dogs barking closer and closer, short and angry, as they led the paladins to their prey. 

Soon, the first black-robed figure appeared between the trees, riding out of the steely grey twilight behind the hounds that picked up the speed, eager to catch up with them. Glancing over his shoulder, Gawain barked another command, and after a moment, the streams of bats erupted from the forest, long black ribbons winding in the air as they gathered around the riders, flying into their faces.

However, the torches and the steel kept the animals at bay, many of them raining down, tiny bodies hitting the frozen ground, and Gawain frowned, taking a step back under cover of Goliath’s body.

“Lance, ride further, do not wait for me—I will stall them.”

“No—I am not—leaving you,” he rasped, leaning down to catch the fox by the scruff and lift him into the saddle, ignoring his loud protests.

Sending Goliath forward, he closed his eyes when the horse lunged, colliding with the water and sending the shower of icy droplets in all directions, drenching both Lancelot and Gawain. The fox yelped angrily but stayed close, not trying to jump down. They crossed the stream in time; Goliath made his way out of the water just when the hounds reached the edge of it on the other side. 

The fox shook himself off, then stopped abruptly, eyes fixed on the other shore — Lancelot slowed as well, glancing over his shoulder to follow Gawain’s eyes. Mouth twisting in a bitter, terrible smile, Gawain laughed, dark and angry, before barking out a mangled word Lancelot could not make out over the whistle of wind in the branches and the rush of blood in his ears. 

On the other side, the hounds stopped, scratching at their muzzles and whining. Then, they slowly turned around and even across the rush of water, Lancelot could hear them growl. The guard tried to shout at them, cracking the whip again, but they kept closing in on him. In a blink, they lunged, one of them catching the whip in its jaws—and in the next moment, they swarmed the man, tearing into him.

The other guards rushed to fight the hounds, trying to push them off, striking left and right, but it was too late. For a moment, Lancelot just watched before a particularly blood-curdling scream breaking off in a gurgled groan and a crunch of bone snapped him out of it, and he turned to face Gawain to find him rising from his knees on two feet.

“Why haven’t you done that earlier?”

Looking distinctly green around the gills, Gawain clenched his jaw and met his eyes. 

“That’s… A bad spell. I’ll pay for that—no matter.”

Flickering green gleams shifted over his face, standing out clearer now, with the steadily growing morning light that made it through the clouds of black smoke billowed north by the wind. Frowning, Gawain looked up for a moment and glanced at the woods.

“That’s all of them, right?” He waited until Lancelot nodded hesitantly, then wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Good. Great. Can you ride?”

Again, Lancelot gave the nod, firmer this time.

“Follow the path—I will catch up shortly,” Gawain called out, climbing up the shore together with him until the beginning of the path shown in between the silent dark trees. “Just need to get Gringalet.”

Nodding, Lancelot turned his horse around and urged him again. The spell was waning already, the strain of crossing the river too much even for it, and the pain came back with increased viciousness. Wheezing for air, black eating at the edges of his vision, Lancelot stubbornly clung to the saddle. He was lucky that Goliath knew how to carry a wounded man, but he still had to slow down, the world spinning too fast around him.

Bending over the pommel of the saddle, he threw up, panted for air for a moment, then straightened, wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his hand, blood and soot smearing over his face. Swallowing the bitter taste, Lancelot urged Goliath on again, the dark trees bowing low over them, branches almost brushing over his shoulders.

When a loud rustle sounded at his side, he barely had the strength to yank the dagger out of a sheathe attached to a saddle; but the branches parted to reveal Gawain, and Lancelot sagged immediately. The spells had really trickled out by now, the ache taking hold, and he swayed in the saddle, earning himself another worried look.

Urging the white horse to come closer, Gawain caught Goliath’s reins, forcing him to stop. The man was now dressed and even wearing a chainmail under his cloak, the sight of it so unusual, that Lancelot blinked owlishly, staring at it, his head spinning.

“Let me see your ribs—wait—,” skimming his hands in a careful inspection, Gawain frowned, then narrowed his eyes, the green flaring up a bit. “You are not bleeding—fuck, can’t feel for sure—let me wrap them, at least, before we reach the others.”

Shrugging out of his cloak, he started to tear it into strips, and Lancelot had no voice to protest. Above them, the first dim glow of sunlight lightened the heavy grey clouds, still tinged with green as the fey fire raged behind them—Lancelot could distantly, vaguely feel it rage, chasing the remaining paladins into the woods and taking them down with vicious glee that he felt nothing of. He just wanted to rest, finally, to reach that promised other side.

“Others?” Lancelot managed to say, trying to breathe through the ache that returned in waves, only slightly soothed by what Gawain was chanting under his breath, as he proceeded to wrap his ribs. To distract himself, he stared at the bloody red ears of Gawain’s horse, wondering if he imagined them.

“Yeah—Nimue insisted, there is an entire welcoming party, everyone is eager to meet you—they must have seen that explosion, too, so you’re already a legend… Hey, hey, don’t faint, we’re almost there; they are waiting for us just around the corner. Come, a bit more—follow me.”

Drawing away and keeping a hand on Goliath’s reins, Gawain led them forward. Numb and dazed, Lancelot followed, barely controlling the horse, who, thankfully, did not need his guidance, instinctively following the red-eared stallion. In front of them, in a small distance, Lancelot could now make out a small group of people gathered under cover of the trees across the narrow clearing, their cloaks blending in with the lingering shadows.

Perking up, he swallowed the disgusting mix of blood, bile and soot that coated his tongue and tried to straighten. They were barely five dozen steps away from the fey, he could see their faces — fauns, mostly, holding longbows as they warily watched them approach. There was also a young woman in a blue dress who tilted her head, as if studying him, and an older one at her side, dark-skinned and scowling at both of them, who he recognised from the battlefield.

Out of habit, Lancelot inhaled deeper, trying to make out their scents as he always did when he met someone new. The sound must have been loud enough to prompt Gawain to turn to him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — Lancelot almost returned it, but it vanished at once when his ears caught the snap of twigs behind them, wind bringing the scent of men. 

He barely had time to call out for Gawain before looking over his shoulder to see the last Trinity Guard standing under the trees with a small group of paladins; then, it all happened so fast.

The bowstrings sang behind and before him, sending the arrows flying, a hail of them from both sides. The roots erupted from the ground in a shower of dirt, unearthing huge clods of frozen soil and slithering fast in the direction of the paladins, terrified shouts erupting as they reached the men—

—twisting around, Lancelot saw the dark-skinned woman lower her bow, a grim, satisfied smile playing across her face—

—a blue-eyed girl squeezed her eyes shut, green trailing up her face—

—an arrow went straight through his chest.

He began to fall but was caught into someone’s arms, everything spinning around, horses, trees, ground and sky—until his eyes found the familiar face, ghostly white right now as Gawain held him, grabbing tight at his shoulders to stop him from sliding to the ground. 

Blood spilling out of his mouth in fast pulses, Lancelot tore his eyes away from the wound. Looking up, he saw two identically terrified gazes fixed on him, the wild green of Gawain’s and the bright, watery blue of Nimue’s. He tried to say something, clutching at Gawain’s chainmail—not a sound came out. His fingers kept sliding without finding purchase, but the man caught them in his shaking hand. 

Lancelot could not look away from that pale, loved face set in a wide-eyed look of horror, the first rays of sunlight setting the green eyes alight. He drew a rattling breath, and something shifted in Gawain’s expression, the sound bringing him out of his daze; he snapped his terrified gaze up, still cradling Lancelot, and shouted something in a broken voice that Lancelot could not make out, the world going dark.

~ 

_ “Wlancloth, anadlu!  _ Fuck, it’s not working—Nimue, call for the Hidden! Ask for their blessing!”

“I am trying, I am—hold him, hold him—fuck, fuck, Wein, he is bleeding out!”

“Use your fucking magic, witch, I can’t—I am not—I—take mine. Take my reserves.”

“But you will—”

“I said, _ take them.” _

~

“Wein? You haven’t slept in two days. You need to recover, too; you nearly died. He—Wlancloth is strong, he is—”

“Shut up. Please, just—I am sorry, I am snapping, it’s not your fault—you’re right, of course, you are, but I need to be with him.”

“Wein, you might be a prodigy, but you are still just an apprentice. Yeva and Polly already did everything there was to be done; there is nothing to do now but wait.”

“I know, but I—I need to be here when he wakes up. He has to know someone is here for him. Just let me, Nim, I am not going to die _ now. _ Not until he is awake—I shall expire then, otherwise it is not dramatic enough.”

“Out of all the reasons for why you refuse to die, this is the one I actually believe.”

~

Cracking his eyes open, Lancelot stared at the ceiling for a long moment, unable to even groan, his throat and lips parched and fog filling in his head. Every single part of him hurt, but he was alive, and so he counted it as a win. Besides, there was a warm weight cuddled under his arm, he realised, and it was breathing heavily; inhaling a bit deeper, he couldn’t help a weak smile.

Even in his sleep, Gawain was nuzzling closer, trying to burrow into him, a faint frown drawing his brows together as he made a soft distressed noise. However, when he stuck his nose in the crook of Lancelot’s neck, his breath tickling the tender skin, the young man only had to take a couple of deep inhales to calm down, sagging back into sleep.

A smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Lancelot studied him for a moment, then quieted, too, nose buried in soft ginger curls that still smelled of smoke but also, weirdly, juniper. Closing his eyes, he let himself follow his friend, the potions dragging him into a healing slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wlancloth, anadlu!" - "Wlancloth, breathe!" (Google Translate, so forgive me if it's off, or better yet, drop me a line, I'll fix it!)

**Author's Note:**

> If you spot any typos/translation errors, let me know! And even if you don't, drop a comment - always extremely happy to hear from the readers! <3 (a keysmash counts ;))


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